


Conjunction

by Decorera



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Witchers, Correspondence, F/M, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Monsters, Slow Burn, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decorera/pseuds/Decorera
Summary: "If we can survive another day, I believe we may be well on our way to victory."





	1. Chapter 1

It was a good time to be a witcher.

It was the only thought in Geralt’s head while he tore his way through a pack of alghouls. Contracts which had been slowly drying up for years were now thick on the ground. The North had suffered an influx of monsters when Ciri had gone to battle the White Frost and the Redanian soldiers, now suffering the loss of their King Radovid, were in no shape to deal with them all. After Ciri and he had said their goodbyes in White Orchard, Geralt had headed back onto the Path. He didn’t like the idea of his girl jumping into the pit of snakes that was Nilfgaardian politics, but there was little he could do to help her. Emhyr was far better suited for that and he had a vested interest in keeping Ciri safe. At least that was what Geralt told himself when he rode into the northern wilds.

Now just three weeks later, Geralt was flush with coin from all the contracts. Clearly no witchers had been by in a long time. Geralt took his gold for the alghouls and decided to head back to Novigrad. Dandelion and Pricilla’s tavern was doing well; well enough to support Geralt for a few day of well-earned rest. Thus he was pretty annoyed when Dandelion pounced on him with a distraught expression right as he came through the door. 

“Geralt! What did you do?”

Geralt, having been prepared to listen to another of Dandelion’s sob stories, was confused. “What did I do? What do you mean, Dandelion?”

Dandelion pulled at his hat in agitation, “How could you not warn me?! He’s upstairs! Right now!”

Geralt shook his head like a dog splashed with water, “Who’s upstairs? What are you talking about, Dandy?”

Dandelion opened his mouth to shout and then clearly thought better of it. Instead he just shoved Geralt up the stairs and into the master suite on the top floor. Geralt stumbled to a halt as the door slammed behind him and left him in a room with Diskstra, Roche, Yennefer, and Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, The White Flame Dancing Atop the Graves of His Foes.

The emperor of Nilfgard …

In Novigrad.

“Alright, this is ballsy, even for you.” Yennifer looked like she was going to hit him, Roche looked appalled, and Diskra hadn’t taken his eye off of Emhyr. Emhyr, on the other hand, maintained that cold marble-like expression that had annoyed Geralt from day one. 

“Witcher, we have no time for your juvenile humor. Come.” He ordered the room, and damned if every one of them didn’t obey him immediately. Geralt rolled his eyes and strolled over to the table the others had gathered around. He gave Roche a particular stink eye. Roche had flogged Geralt when he thought the witcher had killed Roche’s beloved King Foltest. Now here was the man actually responsible for the assassination right in from of him and Roche didn’t make a peep. Bastard.

Luckily the table held a map and maps had always interested Geralt, so he had a good reason to attend Emhyr. ‘Yeah keep telling yourself lies like that and maybe one day you’ll convince yourself,’ Geralt told himself as he avoided the Emperor’s sharp gaze. It was a particularly large and detailed map; the likes of which Geralt had never seen. It must have cost thousands of crowns to have drawn. The entire known world was detailed: the vast empire of Nilfgaard, the remnants of the Northern Realms, and the outlying countries like Zerikania. Geralt frowned at Yennifer when he noticed Kaer Morhen had been labeled with the Witcher Wolf symbol. The Emperor had laid out the Redanian and Nilfgaardian armies as well as the forces of Roche (disturbingly there was a marker right over their “hidden headquarters”), the Church’s Witch Hunters, and Dikstra’s criminals. Confusingly, there was a variety of other markers on the map and they were spread almost randomly across the entire continent.

“I have called you all together because we will soon be the last leaders of humanity.”

Geralt reared back and stared at Emhyr. He wasn’t alone in doing so.

“As many of you are aware, my heir Cirilla has defeated the Wild Hunt; the majority of you here aided her in this quest, most particularly the Lodge of Sorceresses. The Lodge employed a massive amount of power to stop Eredin and his Wild Hunt from fleeing Cirilla’s forces. Unknown to them, the elven sage Avallac'h was able to hijack that power during this time of weakened spacial pressure to induce another Conjunction of the Spheres.” 

Emhyr held up his hand to ward off the questions bursting out of Roche and Dikstra. “This was not done maliciously as his goal was to allow Cirilla the chance to defeat the World Ender, the White Frost for all time. She has done so. However the timing of the challenge was…impetuous.” Emhyr motioned to the map. “All assumed that when Cirilla defeated the White Frost, the Conjunction ended. This is both true and not true.”

“Avallac’h used the powers of the Sorceresses, the Sunstone, and the presence of the Wild Hunt to pull the Spheres into alignment. This was a massive shift in the natural order of their movement but not one that created the necessary momentum to continue such swift movement. The regular movement of the Spheres is quite slow. According to all the records we have left of that time, it took one hundred years before the Spheres fell out of alignment and the first Conjunction ended.”

Stunned silence greeted his words. Roche twitched his hand as if he felt an impulse to raise it before blurting out, “Then that is why we have seen such a sharp increase of monsters?”

Geralt shook his head in disbelief, “No, you’ve got to be wrong. The monsters stopped appearing in Skellege after Ciri defeated the White Frost.”

Yennifer shook her head, her black mane twisting like an agitated pony’s, “Geralt, when was the last time you studied the Spheres? Never? When Avallac’h stopped pulling on the Spheres to align, there was less pressure, so to speak, and the Conjunction Travelers stopped being pulled through at such an expedited rate. That is why the monsters appeared to stop arriving. We are still in a Conjunction. Worse, we are at the beginning of a Conjunction Phrase. 

I don’t think you all can understand how much power is necessary to move the Spheres an inch, much less the several million miles Avallac’h achieved. He had to wait generations before the Spheres could even be close enough to be pulled. Because it took so much power, he could not move them any further than was absolutely necessary. So rather than pulling the Spheres to the end of a Conjunction Phrase, he only just barely managed to pull them to the beginning. It is as His Majesty said. We have many years of the Conjunction left to survive.”

Geralt tried to meet her eyes and Yennifer skillfully evaided him. Geralt felt a deep pit of fear open in his belly. “Where is Ciri, Yennifer?” He demanded. The sorceress tossed her hair and didn’t answer, but she did look guilty. Geralt turned to Emhyr and saw the Emperor watching him with a peculiar expression. Geralt jerked his hand in a demanding gesture.

“Cirilla is fine, Witcher. She had a difficult discussion with the Lodge, but she was not harmed. Nor have I allowed the information about her part in the beginning of this new Conjunction to spread. As the Heir Apparent, I would never allow her to be placed in such a dangerous political position.” 

Emhyr’s goshawk gaze travelled to Dikstra and settled there like talons plunging into a side of meat. Geralt swung around to add his furious stare toward the scheming crime lord. Dikstra took a wary step back from their combined ire but quickly tried to hide his unease by fetching a cup of wine. He muttered angrily under his breath as he rejoined them at the table but he didn’t try to meet Geralt or Emhyr’s eyes.

Emhyr’s thin lips briefly curved in a cruel smile before he gestured to the odd markers on the map, “Monsters have been appearing at a steadily increasing rate; worse, unfamiliar monsters, as well as those known to us. They have also been taking advantage of the vast amount of soft human targets to gorge and breed; further increasing their numbers. Humanity is much more widespread than before and with far greater numbers. Our world is a more tempting morsel than ever before and we stand a great chance of being completely wiped out unless we are united in our defense.”

Dikstra looked up and stared at the Emperor. His mouth fell open just a little in shock and the he returned his eyes to the map. Dikstra chuckled bitterly and then sat, his chair groaning under his weight. “How long have you known, Your Majesty?” 

Enhyr turned his piercing eyes on him, clearly considering if answering was to his benefit, “I gained access to the Imperial Record of the Conjunction and the prophesies when I reclaimed my throne. I have known since then that my daughter was destined to defeat the White Frost and therefore that a Conjunction was inevitable within her lifetime. You may recall my fervor in attempting to locate her.”

Dikstra cackled, “Unified in our defense. Your nobles must have thought you were mad when you told them you wanted to conquer the world to protect it from another Conjunction.”

Geralt whipped his head around to look at Emhyr who kept his icy expression. It made sense in a roundabout way. Nilfgaard had excellent standing troops and regular patrols of all their claimed territory. As a largely military state, every citizen had a mandatory military service period. If there was a nation prepared to ward off a Conjunction, it was Nilfgaard.

Emhyr’s thin lips twisted, “My nobles had no need to know. They accepted the explanation of a tyrant conqueror easily enough. The Northern Kings were far harder to convince.”

Dikstra looked away and Geralt was shocked to read a hint of guilt on his corpulent features, “I remember the confidential message you sent after the second war. I thought it was a rather unbelievable and stupid play to be honest. Should have known better. Why would you make up such an unbelievable tale? It served no purpose.”

Emhyr sneered, “Pity. If only you had shown such insight before, an entire war could have been avoided.”

“Bullshit,” Roche reddened under everyone’s regard but blazed forward. “There is no way conquest would be a good set up for a crisis like this. Look where we are now. Our forces are thoroughly diminished and scattered rather than prepared for defense. Refugees litter the land like buffets for these monsters. Fortification are destroyed. You just want a reason to justify your own lust for power.”

Emhyr lay a quiet hand on the table and stared Roche down. His deep voice was as a black snake; compelling and deadly, “Imagine a world ten years after a successful conquest under the rule of Empress Cirilla of Cintra and Nilfgaard.” Roche’s lips were white as he pressed them together. His eyes glared but flinched away under Emhyr’s goshawk gaze. Emhyr slowly straightened and cast his gaze over them all.

“This is why I mentioned that the timing of Cirilla’s defeat of the White Frost was impetuous. Had the continent been able to unite; under Nilfgaard’s banner or through an alliance of diplomacy,” 

Geralt huffed. That was a not so subtle reminder of the years of diplomatic efforts Emhyr had spent in between his wars.

“A world united with years of preparation would have been a formidable bastion against the expected Conjunction.” Emhyr let that sink in before he waved a hand idly before him; as if to banish the dream. “However the present facts remain the same. We will soon be overrun by monsters, both bestial and intelligent, and we stand at a particularly unprepared position. We must pool our resources and work together to survive.”

He then laid out a most thorough report of monster appearances, monster attributes, and their resulting clashes with his troops. Geralt was reluctantly impressed. He hadn’t heard details like these out of anyone but witchers before. So many time he had heard, ‘a big scaly thing’. Emhyr was describing feather patterns on the new breeds of cockatrices appearing. Dikstra even started to take notes. It was half an hour later before Emhyr set the cat amongst the pigeons.

“Only one unit has proven effective against the influx of monsters; the witchers.”

Geralt started and turned to Yennifer. She rolled her eyes at him, “While you were off sulking about Ciri taking the throne, no one could find you; whereas Lambert and Eskal were easily found.” 

Emhyr’s sharp eyes flickered between the witcher and the sorceress at her sharp tone, but his commanding voice never faltered. “With one witcher fighting alongside and advising, a battalion of troops had had a ninety percent survival rate and one hundred percent success in eliminating their targets. This far outweighs the successes reported from the rest of our troops.”

Geralt shifted his shoulders to feel the comforting weight of his swords, “So you’re here to hired me too?”

Emhyr pursed his lips briefly before shaking his head, “Incorrect. You are here because we need many more witchers than just yourself. You must revive the School of the Wolf.”

Geralt felt a chill running up his spine. “No,” he calmly refused.

“You don’t have a choice, Geralt.” Dikstra interjected, “The information is staring us all in the face. Without the witchers, humanity is going to be hunted down to nigh extinction. The dwarves and elves are already reporting huge losses and they number far less than us. How long before they are wiped out? How long before all of the tiny villages out there are slaughtered to the last child?”

Roche stepped up beside Geralt and put his hand on his shoulder, “Why suddenly is it so imperative to get such specialized troops? Nilfgaard had the largest army and the greatest population from which to draw a draft. What about your great plan, Your Majesty? You have invaded with your vast troops to protect the people and it’s not working?”

Emhyr looked at him coldly, “The fewer numbers due to this drawn out war with the north, the Redaians still attacking the border troops despite our efforts at a ceasefire, and the vastly underestimated length of the conjunction have not convinced you of the need for humanity to work together, Commander? Then let me be plain. I will not leave my people to be slaughtered by Redanians any more than I would monsters.” He turned to Geralt, “I could bring more men to the field in time but all the armies currently in field stand a great chance of being winnowed down before the month is out. Without the witchers, there will not be enough troops left to protect our people from anything. As the numbers stand now, humanity will lose this war.”

Geralt just shook his head, “It won’t work anyway. You can’t turn adult men into witchers and your whole argument is based on the fact that you don’t have enough time to recruit and train more troops. How do you expect me to create witchers in any less time?”

Yennifer was looking down at her gloved hands and didn’t look up as she spoke. “We have the solution to that.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean?” He asked suspiciously.

“What you need to create more witchers is children, which we have a surplus of. Don’t look at me like that, Geralt! The amount of children orphaned by the war and more recently orphaned by monster attack is incredible. We have easily gathered 100 children and that is just a start.”

“Yennifer!”

“Furthermore, the supplies you need to create witchers have been stored in Kaer Morhen for years. The only thing you need is time. And the Lodge of Sorceresses, with Ciri’s help, can give you that.”

Geralt grabbed her hand and forced her to look up. His voice snapped out like an injured wolf, “Be plain, if you can, Yen. What are you talking about?”

Yen shook him off and stepped a few steps away, “We plan to move Kaer Morhen and its entire valley into, well, a place outside of time.”

Dikstra and Roche looked as shocked as Geralt felt. “What?”

“In that place, time will move faster for the Witchers than for us here. By our calculations, by as much as a year for every day which passes here.”

Geralt felt the weight of a terrible choice pressing upon his shoulders. Suddenly his swords were no comfort at all. 

Dikstra nodded, “So to sum it up, in ten days you could turn one hundred ten year olds into thirty twenty-year-old witchers.”

Geralt felt like Emhyr’s goshawk eyes, piercing and slightly mad, were going to impale him with the intensity of the gaze. “We could not, but Witcher Geralt could.”

Geralt lifted horrified eyes to him, but Emhyr was relentless, “Lambert has refused on basic of principle. Eskel has refused with evidence of his lack of teaching prowess. In Cirilla, you have shown yourself an able teacher, and you will not sacrifice humanity to preserve your own moral code. We do not have the time for you to pretend that you would. You must leave for Kaer Morhen with the sorcerers and your students tonight, if you do not wish for thousands more deaths on your conscious.”

Emhyr drew up his hood and stalked towards the door, “Yennifer will direct you on the particulars. I will be in contact with you all soon.” Yennifer opened a portal and the Emperor was gone.

Diskstra swore rather impressively, “Bloody Melitele’s tits,” he finished up, “We are going to have hundreds of refugees fleeing to Novigrad’s walls. I’ll do what I can to convince the Redainians this is an actual emergency and get the church to open Novigrad. Roche, your people will have to take the brunt of keeping the roads clear. Fuck this shit.” He stomped out. Roche followed with a sympathetic look towards Geralt. Geralt shook his head as he looked toward Yennifer.

“Yen, I can’t.”

Yennifer tossed her hair over her shoulder, “You don’t have any choice, Geralt. Just resign yourself to it.”

Geralt slammed down a fist into the table, “Damn it Yenifer, would it be so hard to give me a little sympathy!”

Yennifer lifted her icy gaze to pierce his, “Would it do any good to cosset you? You’ll still have to do this.”

Geralt just sneered and looked away, “Guess I can’t be surprised. Ever since Skellige, you’ve just frozen me out. Weren’t we friends once?”

Yen fisted a hand in his shirt and tugged him around to meet her gaze, “You have a lot of nerve, Geralt, to give me the let’s be friends speech. You’ll have to settle for what you get. And keep your mind on the job before you. Gather everything you can’t live for a very long time without. We leave for Kaer Morhen in the morning.”

By the time Geralt and Yennifer had reached Kaer Morhen, they had been joined by wagon load after wagonload of children, supplies, and sorceresses. The crumbling fortress hadn’t seen so many within its walls in hundreds of years. Geralt was happy to throw himself into the logistics of finding warm places for all the children to sleep. If it happened to keep him well out of Yennefer’s way, so much the better. But before long, all the supplies had been stored, the children were asleep, and Geralt stood at the road entering the valley surrounded by sorceresses under a full moon. He watched the stars while the witches mumbled and burned incense. Their cold beauty was the only thing keeping his stomach from roiling over with his nausea about the whole plan. After a full hour of chanting, Ciri suddenly appeared in the circle with him. Geralt startled as she threw her arms around him.

“I love you, father.” She whispered in his ear, “I love you for doing this, and know that I am always thinking of you while you’re gone.”

He closed his arms around her silently and memorized the feeling of her in his arms. With each of them being the anchors of the spell, it would be a very long time before he saw Ciri again. It was too soon when Ciri stepped back. She gave him one last sad smile before everything disappeared in a silver light which slowly grew brighter. Geralt shut his eyes against it and when he reopened them he stared at the silver barrier spreading east and west beyond his sight. He reached out to place one hand against it. The barrier was as solid as a mountain. The witcher sighed and turned back along the lonely mountain pass to his crumbling fortress and sleeping students.

\--------

Ciri stepped through time and space and returned to Emhyr’s chambers in the palace at Vizima. Emhyr, himself, was still sitting at the desk where she had left him. If the stack of reports he had been making his way through was any indication, Emhyr had been a bit preoccupied. Ciri hoped that mean he was giving at least some thought to the terrible thing he was asking her foster father to do. She and he had had many an argument about that very fact. But she wasn’t in the mood right now to argue. She threw herself into the chair waiting for her at his side. Emhyr raised his gaze to her in silence before calling for his chamberlain. Mererid stepped in and immediately brought them both glasses of wine.

“It is done then?”

“Yes. It was rather shocking to see actually. It was as if Kaer Morhen never existed in the first place. Once the spell was done, it was just an empty valley.”

Emhyr looked at her with those goshawk eyes of his and Ciri felt as if he saw right through to her deep discomfort with the literal loss of her childhood home. Yet he didn’t condescend to her or tell her it would all be fine. In fact, all he did was place a hand atop one of hers. Strangely, it felt just as comforting as a hundred white lies.

Ciri looked over at the charmed rug lying in its place of honor surrounded by lit candles. It had been Emhyr’s idea to place the portal spell on a movable object. Yennefer and Triss had both strongly argued against the portal being inscribed on something that could be destroyed. However Emhyr won, as he usually did, with brutal logic. He had pointed out that there was no real possibility that Visima would survive the next ten days. Its fortification had been destroyed when the Nilfgaardians invaded and it was proving difficult to defend against the swarms of necrophages and other monsters now surging across the lands. Having the portal portable might become incredibly necessary.

“It is strange to think that by this time tomorrow, Geralt will have spent a year training the children.” Ciri remarked.

Emhyr glanced at her, “I imagine we will have much to hear from the Witcher.”

Ciri frowned, “Why do you always do that? Why don’t you every call Geralt by name? You used to be friends once, didn’t you? Yennefer told me.”

Emhyr buried his gaze back into the reports, “Your question is irrelevant as well as unimportant. You should rest. As much as I should like to see you taking action as my second, currently your witcher skills are far too valuable on the front. You will be joining the 39th battalion in southern Nilfgaard for the day.”

Ciri raised her eyebrows at her father before calmly rising. She commented one last time before she left him alone and the words echoed in Emhyr’s mind. 

“You know that your evasion is an answer in itself.”

Emhyr looked up at the closed door. He slowly and carefully placed his pen precisely parallel to the upper edge of the paper before him. Then he slowly bowed his head over his clasped hands. “Please,” He whispered to his empty chamber, “Bring her home.”

\----------

It was nearly midnight of the first day and Emhyr was still receiving reports from his generals. The sorceresses had become invaluable to keeping the flow of information coming. The randomness of the monster attacks was difficult to counter with such limited effective troops and they were taking incredible losses to strange and powerful creatures. Mererid interrupted the meeting with a quick cough and Emhyr stood. “Continue on, gentlemen. I will return presently.” Mererid led the way with a lantern through the empty palace. All of the nobility not part of the military had been evacuated that day and the palace was echoing empty as a result.

Cirilla was waiting in his chambers, pacing uncouthly. Mererid clucked at her but Emhyr shot him a stern look. Cirilla would have plenty of time to refine the noble graces. During a war for humanity was not the time. Ciri had already placed her personal letter to Geralt inside the circle. Emhyr eyed it with surprise. “Does the Lady Yennefer not wish to send the witcher her regards as well?”

Ciri shuddered, “Nope. Those two had the fight to end all fights back in Skellege. Even Triss was pretty appalled at the things they said to each other. And anyway, even if they hadn’t fought, Yennefer can hold a grudge like a grave hag.”

Ciri blinked as she noticed Emhyr standing abnormally still, but all he said was, “Very well.” He calmly held his hand out to Mererid who handed him a stack of reports. Emhyr placed them alongside Cirrilla’s letter. His hand lingered just a moment over the pile before withdrawing. Ciri eyed him as he stood silently next to the portal. She waited a vast total of sixty seconds before she scoffed in disgust, stomped over to Emhyr’s desk, drew out the drawer with what Emhyr considered excessive force, and pulled out a sealed page addressed to Witcher Geralt in Emhyr’s hand. Emhyr didn’t allow any of his amusement to show as his hot-tempered daughter scrawled a message of her own on the outside of the letter before tossing into the charmed circle with a challenging glare to Emhyr. Emhyr didn’t even twitch.

Cirilla sighed heavily as if her father was disappointing her greatly and Emhyr wondered if she had used the same sigh on her foster father during their many years together. He also wondered if Geralt found it as aggravating as he did, but he imagined that Geralt was too soft to have tried to curb her of the habit. As it was, he was pleased to see that she was displaying the proper amount of paranoia required of a soon to be empress. If she had not searched his rooms prior to his arrival, [i]he[/i] would have been disappointed. Granted he had expected a series of pointed comments about the oddity of the Emperor writing a personal missive to the witcher, rather than simply taking the decision of whether or not to send the letter out of his hands. However Cirilla had all of her mother’s spirit, her father’s will, and her foster father’s impetuousness, so perhaps he should have expected such.

The charmed rug began to pulse with light as the midnight bells began to toll. The light grew with every toll until, at the midnight stroke, it flashed brilliantly and the stack of papers resting upon the rug were replaced with a leather satchel. Emhyr let Cirilla claim it first but joined her in looking through the large collection of letters. It seemed that Geralt had written a report weekly for the entire year. Cirilla crowed with delight as she found several letters addressed to her personally. She absconded with them to the chair by the fire. Emhyr selected the very last report of the lot to read first. Cirilla’s giggles warmed the chilly air as the Emperor broke the seal and began to read. He took careful notes about any requests the witcher sent in, but they were relatively few. It seemed the witchers were truly self-sufficient in that valley. He read through the reports then left them for Mererid to file. His generals were still waiting.

\-----------

They lost Vizima on the second day. Oddly enough, they hadn’t even been the target of the assault. Two clans of giants had caught sight of each other on the plains. Evidentially they were rivals and so both clans rushed to claim the only fortified area for miles: Vizima. They had still lost five battalions defending the city even as the giants tried to kill each other and not the puny humans. Emhyr ordered the retreat while the giants’ attention was fixed on each other and, though the nobility called it cowardly, he was proven right in the end. The last squad leaving Vizima was slaughtered like sheep when the clan who had finally claimed the city turned their attention to the humans. Emhyr ordered a march across the fields. It was harder going but there was enough space for his armies to flank their support division. With the monsters appearing at random, supply chains were at serious risk. His general kept advocating for holing up in a more fortified city and waiting the Confluence out. Emhyr ignored them in favor of a march across the countryside to Velen. He collected refugees and villagers along with all their supplies and goods. 

Emhyr himself cut down green branches to cover the muddy ground before he lay out the charmed rug. Cirilla, who had spent the day fighting leagues away in southern Novigrad, appeared only moments before the portal activated. Emhyr kept himself from saying anything when he caught sight of the bloody gash left untended on her arm, but he imagined that Geralt would have plenty to say to her; given that her letter to him was as bloody as she was. There were half as many reports from the witcher this time, but sitting prominently on top was a page addressed to Emhyr. Under Cirilla’s curious gaze, Enhyr could do nothing else except open it at once.

 _Dear Fucking Emhyr,_  
_I hate you. I hate this plan. Thirty new witchers have begun training. Send funerary urns. Seventy, should do._  
_Geralt._

Cold settled into Emhyr’s bones. He read the rest of the reports automatically. He must have given orders regarding them but when that cold resolved into a hardened well of icy anger, he was alone in his tent and not sure exactly how he had gotten there. Cold fury roiled in his belly and the emperor was glad he had eaten nothing. His finger tapped restlessly on his camp table until he resolutely snatched a quill. He dragged a blank page over and began carefully listing the names of every soldier lost since the confluence began. 

When he finished that, he listed the numbers of casualties of the other armies. When he had finished that, he listed the number of citizen causalities by city and village. His face was as calm as a midnight snowfall but his quill scratched angrily as he listed those wounded in action, those missing in action, and the number of orphans, the dispossessed, and the starving. He didn’t need to call for the reports from which he had learn this. The numbers and names were burned into his memory. He angrily scrawled his name at the bottom of the list and sealed the thick stack of pages with a hefty glob of wax. He rolled the missive up in the portal rug and put the anger out of his mind.

The third day was little better. They found fewer and fewer soldiers to conscript into their failing ranks and more and more dependents to eat away at their stores. They did however make it to Crow’s Perch. The fortified town was little better than a pigsty but it had excellent natural fortifications. Emhyr encamped his armies in the farmland surrounding the area and shoved every refugee and wounded he had into Crow’s Perch. There was just enough room for squads to patrol regularly. Hopefully their diligence would resolve any monster appearances. 

Fortunately, most of the surrounding village’s food stores had already been collected and hoarded away by the former Sergeant of the Bloody Baron. The peasants were not happy to see their food being portioned out to the armies and the refugees, but for the first time in two days everyone got a full meal at dinner. Ciri gave him an approving glance when she saw the thick letter from Emhyr waiting on the portal when she placed her own. Emhyr was very careful to not give away the contents of the letter with his expression. 

The fourth day, everyone woke with hope for the first time in weeks. Work went smoothly, fortifications were repaired, the injured tended, and the soldiers had a moment to catch their breath.

The fourth night, the vampires came.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed

The Nilfgaardian army was a wonder of the world. It was, one could say, almost fanatically organized and disciplined. For example, the sentries patrolled or stood watch in pairs, the sentry watch pattern changed every few days, and if a single sentry is found missing or dead during active maneuvers then it is procedure to alarm the entire camp. That rigid discipline was the only thing that saved them. They found the first sentry dead by vampire bite far sooner than the vampires would have liked, but not soon enough. The vampires poured into the camp as the alarm rang frantically. Within minutes, the entire camp was in panic. Soldiers died in droves.

It was the army sergeants that saved them. Hardened men who had been leading squads of soldiers for years; they kept their wits about them in the face of the panic. The call began to go up across the camp for the soldiers to fall in and frantic soldiers, the order relentlessly drilled into their muscle memory, began to form squads. Together the men stood at least a little chance against the weakest of the vampires. The men settled into the familiar forms of battle and then Emhyr sounded the horns. Every squad began to move back towards the gorge, squads merging seamlessly into cohorts, cohorts into battalions. The vampires were slow to realize what was happening but once they did, they fought all the harder to stop the humans from organizing into their massive army.

It was only an hour past sunset and they had already received massive losses. Massing together at the gorge edge kept the vampires from using their superior speed and agility to their advantage but eventually the human endurance would fail in face of an entire night of battle. Emhyr, who could see the battlefield easily given the slope of the hill, gave the command to Set the wheel in motion. The command passed from general to captain to lieutenant to sergeant and finally to the weary privates on the front lines who began to step left with every third sword swing. It was ragged at first until the men fell into rhythm, but slowly the frontlines began to move like a giant wheel. Weary soldiers fought across the entire front before stepping left and back around the center axel of wounded men, commanders, and the few reserves. Then they paced across the edge of the gorge, safe enough from attack to shake out their arms and drink water, until they reached the battle again and lifted their blades once more to fight. The Wheel was a marvel of Nilfgaardian coordinated battle. It was three ranks of men deep so that if a man fell, then the man behind him pushed forward to take his place with a reserve entering the wheel to replace him. Every man guarded his brothers to the left and right and was guarded in turn. 

The Wheel had bought them time. Emhyr knew it was not time enough.

His generals battered him with suggestions and signaled to General Voorhis, who was frantically trying to use their remaining siege weapons from Crow’s Perch but to little effect as the vampires would easily avoid the giant projectiles. Emhyr calculated in his head the rate of attrition and the strategies available to him. He felt a cold chill grip his heart. They were not going to win. Before if he ever lost a battle, he would pull back and cut his losses to begin his assault anew from a different position. No longer. They were cut off, no help was coming, and there was nowhere safe to retreat to. Eventually his men would become so few that they could retreat across the bridge to Crow’s Perch, but at that point he wouldn’t really have an army any more. There would be survivors by morning. Maybe a garrison full. Not enough to last another night.

Emhyr despaired. He didn’t show it.

He thought of Geralt, suddenly and without warning. Would he be left waiting for reports that would never come? Would he and his young witchers grow older and older waiting for a call to battle which never came? No, Emhyr told himself, and felt surety settle like steel into his spine. Geralt would not stand waiting. Cirilla was still alive out there. She would bring them home. Geralt and his witchers would fight for whatever remained of humanity and they would win. Emhyr drew his sword and ordered his commanders into the reserves. He stepped into place beside them as the Wheel continued to turn. He and his sword grew bloodied while his men continued to die and take vampires with them.

The moon was high when a cry went up from the frontlines.

Emhyr looked out over the hordes and saw silver light fading from behind the vampires. Cirilla stood behind enemy lines with Eskel and Lambert at her left and right hands. Ruthless smiles lingered on all three witcher’s faces as they drew their silver swords. Emhyr felt his heart stop in his chest as he watched his daughter and the witchers hit the vampires hard from behind. The three figures seemed to be making a suicide charge, but their silver swords continued to dispatch vampire after vampire. 

Both witchers had been miles away on various fronts and Cirilla had collected them both and returned; an exhausting use of her powers. She fought on despite that and her silver hair caught and reflected the moonlight like a silver beacon. The explosions of witcher bombs were a rousing counterpoint to the cheer that went up for Ciri from the ranks. “Emreis! Emreis! Emreis!” The army fought all the harder with their Princess, the living symbol of their empire before them. Eventually Cirilla herself beheaded the ancient bruxa leader. As one, the vampire hoard turned to avenge their fallen mistress. They pulled back from attacking the army and massed together; fighting to be the first to sink their claws into Cirilla. That was all General Voorhis needed. 

Their catapults rained phosphorus and silver dust bundles on the mass of angered vampires. The witchers let loose with their fire and the vampire ranks were well and thoroughly routed. The army rallied and marched to defend their princess. When the bloody work was done, a squad took it upon themselves to carry her back to the command tent on their shoulders amidst thunderous cheers. Cirilla laughed, waved, and genuinely charmed the whole army but collapsed like a falling tree as soon as she walked through the tent flaps. Emhyr, following right behind her, carried her to his bed himself and send aids out to find the witchers who Emhyr was certain had holed up into a quiet corner to do the same.

The aftermath was quiet. New sentries took their places. The wounded were treated. Solders fell into their bedrolls and slept like hibernating bears. His daughter lay asleep on his pallet. Emhyr gave into human weakness and sat close beside her; his bandaged hand rested on her silver hair. Cirilla was so deeply exhausted that even someone coming so close to her did not awaken her. She had saved the day and the entire army knew it. But she had paid a heavy price.

The glow from the portal broke into Emhyr’s tired thoughts. The normal pile of report was topped with a letter addressed to him in a demanding hand. Emhyr turned his gaze back to his daughter. He was in no mood to deal with the witcher’s no doubt aggravating response to Emhyr’s temper tantrum in his last letter. He had been so angry at Geralt for blaming him for their situation. Had he not been exhausted and frustrated by his guilt and the losses he himself was actually responsible for, Emhyr doubted he would ever have responded to what was obviously the witcher’s own guilt for the children dying in the witcher trials. It had been foolish to send the casualty reports to Geralt. There was nothing gained by making the witcher feel bad over something he could not control and the witcher was exactly the type of person who would. And now, Emhyr felt as if he was a hundred years older after just one night. He did not have time for childishness while his daughter needed him.

The letter was carried off by Mererid with the rest of the reports.

Emhyr put out the lamps and returned to his vigil. As his eyes trailed helplessly over Cirilla, his mind ruthlessly ran the numbers again and again. Too many wounded, too many dependents unable or untrained to fight, too little supplies to feed them all; Emhyr knew that across his vast nation his generals were all facing the same hard decisions. Who could they save, who had to be abandoned, how would they even survive the next year if the peasants could not safely grow the crops needed to feed them all? They had to hold out until the witchers grew up, but who would be left by then? Emhyr examined choice after choice of who to abandon and predicted the resulting outcomes based on his available information. None of the results could be even close to resembling satisfactory. Save the army and lose the peasantry, then starve the next year. Save the peasants and abandon his wounded, then his soldiers would revolt. Retreat to Nilfgaard proper and attempt to save his kingdom only and within three years the monsters would simply overwhelm the last bastion of humanity. Break into small concentrated nomadic groups to avoid the majority of the monsters, then communication and discipline would break down resulting in tyranny and human monstrosity.

Emhyr blinked at the bright light of a lit lamp when Mererid returned unsummoned. Emhyr raised one eyebrow and his chamberlain held out the witcher’s letter with a sullen expression. Both of Emhyr’s eyebrows rose. Mererid had little regard for Geralt and would certainly never interrupt his Lord with anything trivial. Emhyr scanned over the letter and his eyes quickly fell to the paragraph Mererid had marked.

_I’ve got the food to feed them. Don’t bother asking how. Just trust me. Get the sorceresses to look at DeGause’s research from his later compilations. That should allow them to enlarge the portal temporary. It will work best from a place of power, but with enough sorceresses working together you should be able to make it big enough to send your wounded through. If you have it to spare, send construction material with them. I’ve included a list. A year should be long enough for most of them to heal, but this old fortress is going to need some repair if it is going to house more people over winter._

Emhyr snapped his head up, “Send for Voorhis and Havart var Moehoen.” He dropped his eyes back to the letter to read it from the start as Mererid bowed and left.

_Emhyr,_  
_I’m sorry._  
_I shouldn’t have taken out my anger and guilt at the situation on you. I guess I didn’t think, I mean really think, about how big this situation is. The lists helped. I don’t know how many servants you had help you gather those names. That you wrote them out by hand, well, I understand the guilt, is what I mean._  
_So it is much worse than I thought. I don’t know if you will believe me but I think I have a solution for at least one of your problems. I’ve read the reports your Captains keep sending me. You are losing your mobility because of your wounded. You can’t leave them behind without guards, but the size of your army is what is keeping it effective without the witchers. You can’t split into smaller groups yet, but you also can’t abandon the wounded. It is just wrong, despite the massive hit to moral._  
_So send them here._  
_Just to clarify, I don’t mean forever. A year is all it would take for most of them to heal up. Send a drill sergeant to get them back into fighting trim. One day later, you’ll have all your wounded back on the frontlines again. You can even keep doing it, if you need to. We have plenty of extra blankets here, now._

“Majesty?” His two Generals stepped inside the tent at Emhyr’s word and the Emperor eyed them. The men drooped with weariness but their eyes held a certain desperate hope. Clearly Mererid had told them that the summons was not for bad news. Emhyr noticed, with interest, that Morvain’s eyes darted to Cirilla’s sleeping form and then back to his Emperor repeatedly and gained a distinctly worried fashion when they rested on Cirilla. A promising situation to be examined later in greater depth. Emhyr forced his weary mind to make a note.

The Emperor stood and placed the letter carefully on his table; nudging it till it lay perfectly straight. “Gentlemen,” he spoke and couldn’t help the small smile that began tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If we can survive another day, I believe we may be well on our way to victory.” He took great pleasure in their relieved smiles.

It took a lot of bullying to get the sorceresses to do it. His officers were well used to their Emperor issuing impossible tasks. They began organizing the medics, wounded, and what supplies they could spare while Emhyr and Ciri took on the Lodge.

“It’s impossible!” Fringilla Vigo declared.

“We’d be useless for any magic the next day: completely defenseless, and you’d want us to do it again the next night!” Eilhart exclaimed.

“It really doesn’t seem feasible, Your Majesty.” Yennifer demurred.

“Hmmm,” said Triss, with her nose in Vetro DeGause’s Compendium of Planer Study Volume Two.

Together Emhyr and his daughter were the match for any number of stubborn sorceresses and by noon, the entire collection of magic users were hard at work. Emhyr and Ciri rewarded themselves for a job well done by taking a walk to inspect the other preparations. Emhyr noted with pleasure that the soldiers and even the peasants would stop working to bow, not just to him, but specifically to Cirilla. It took the girl a while to notice the extra attention she was receiving and even then she seemed more puzzled then proud. Emhyr hid his amusement. Cirilla turned to him to question, but he stopped her with a raised finger.

“Wait until we are alone.”

Cirilla manage to wait until they returned to the command tent, but then practically pounced on Emhyr with her questions. Emhyr shook his head, “Did it not occur to you, Cirilla, that your actions last night would go unremarked? You have cemented yourself as a hero to the army and what the army knows, it’s dependents know. I am sure the tales of your charge have grown quite unbelievable. Easy enough to do when the actual facts are so unlikely to begin with.”

Cirilla huffed and Emhyr couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to Geralt’s own reaction to accolade. “But it wasn’t just me! Lambert and Eskal were right there with me! I didn’t do it alone.”

Emhyr tilted his head and gave her a mildly amused look, “But you are known, far more so than any witcher; no matter how powerful. Moreover, as the Princess of Nilfgaard you were clearly were the commanding officer. You could not have done better to solidify your political support within the army. They will follow you anywhere now; reassured that your nigh-mythical battle ability will lead them true.”

Ciri’s mouth dropped open before she snapped it closed with an angry expression, “I didn’t do that to gain political support!” she snarled “I did it because I had too! Because it was the right thing to do!”

Emhyr gave her a dry look, “Your intentions are as irrelevant in doing good as they are in doing evil. What you have done is all that matters.”

Cirilla scowled at him and strode out of the tent. Emhyr could hear her yelling at someone to stop bowing and he caught his chuckle behind his hand. He sat at his camp desk, a clever mix of a folding table and a map desk. He picked up the latest stack of reports to begin reading them but hesitated. He set them down. The waiting stack of blank paper drew his attention. He collected his quill and began to write.

_Witcher,  
As you will have no doubt noticed by the time you read this letter, I have taken you at your word and send my wounded through the portal to you. I have also sent a few healers, their apprentices, and the most infirm of the elderly. I hope you were not joking that you have the means to feed them, but I suppose starving in Kaer Morhen is very like starving in Velen. At least they won’t have to deal with monster attacks. If all goes well, my plan is to find a city near arable land and relocate the remaining peasantry of Velen there. There is simply far too much wild land here for monsters to thrive in. I believe Temerria will be our best chance. _

Emhyr paused. That was a reasonable report and a far more cordial letter than the two of them had been exchanging lately. He should stop there. Nevertheless, Emhyr bent back to writing.

_Cirrilla preforms admirably upon the battlefield. I have always acknowledged witcher battleskill to be some of the finest in the land, but I did not believe Cirilla could be so skilled without the witcher mutations to aid her. However I was wrong. She is a formidable foe and has fought well. The army has taken to her and so has at least one of my generals._

Emhyr lifted his head to stare at the lamp as he considered General Morvrain Voorhis. Until Cirilla had been found, the heir of the Voorhis family had been his official heir, the next Emperor. Once Cirilla had returned, there had been noises made about marrying the two, to combine the royal line and the popular choice. Emhyr had done his best to put those rumormongers off and the Conjunction had certainly silenced any voices demanding anything but survival. Voorhis might have his own agenda and would bear watching. He was far too solicitous and worried about Cirilla to be indifferent to his newly found rival for the throne. Emhyr made a mental note before returning to his letter.

Naturally the day couldn’t pass without battle, but even the tired soldiers had found new hope as the rumors of a magical sanctuary for the wounded began to permeate the army. Already the opinion of magic, magic users, and witchers was beginning to shift. Too many had witnessed for themselves magic being used to heal, to defend, and to attack their enemies. The witchers in particular were hailed as heroes. Whenever they entered battle, the number of lives saved became immediately noticeable. Ciri wasn’t the only one finding the shift in their reputation a bit shocking. Eskel acquired the most amusing expression whenever a soldier pounded his back with accolades or old women brought him water with showers of thanks. Lambert hid; mostly in the tent of the sorceress Kiera Meitz.

They managed to hold Crow’s Perch for the whole day and by evening, everyone was evacuated from the keep except those being sent to Kaer Morhen. Emhyr ordered Voorhis to discreetly send one of his spies along. Fortunately many of his spies were already in the ranks of the wounded, so no intense subterfuge was necessary. The Emperor had no intentions of angering Geralt, but as he had told his daughter: actions not intention. Emhyr impressed the limits within which the spy should work very carefully. At the midnight toll, the whole army gasped as an entire keepful of dependents and wounded simply vanished into thin air. The sorceresses confirmed that the spell had worked as theorized before they staggered back to their tents. 

Emhyr nodded in satisfaction as a runner brought him a satchel of reports from Geralt and the original portal rug. “We strike camp tomorrow at dawn. We make for Maribor.”

\-------------------  
Geralt’s eyes grew wide with shock as the valley floor flooded with people. Kaer Morhen had likely never seen so many people within sight of her walls, ever. Geralt glanced back at the excited witcher youths hanging out of their bedroom windows to see and then back at the small army of people. “Ploughing, buggering, fucking hell!”  
\------------------

The entire army and its remaining dependents set off for Maribor. Their pace was slow but it was the slow march of an army on the move with a destination not the slow crawl of an army protecting a train of wounded and elderly. Emhyr took advantage of the march to Maribor. He slept. He hadn’t gotten a full night sleep in weeks and the last few nights had been particularly challenging. Gerneral Voorhis was given command of the army and Emhyr was pleased to wake up to the sound of he and Ciri arguing. He had hoped that Cirilla would stand up for herself against her rival, even if she herself didn’t see the value of political maneuvering for a throne she didn’t really want.

“I will go where I please, General, and Novigrad is under siege. We can’t spare the horses for a messenger, even if they could get through, and Novigrad needs to know about the vampires. I’m going!”

Emhyr ducked under his tent flap just in time to catch the last of Ciri’s light in his eyes. He blinked away spots until he could see the frustrated face of his General who stood staring after Ciri as if he could bring her back with his will power alone. ‘Problems, General?”

Voorhis started at the sound of his Emperor’s voice, “Your Majesty! I, um, your daughter, ah…”

Emhyr rested his imposing gaze on the younger man and felt a terrible pleasure as he quailed. Emhyr tilted his head just so. “My daughter?”

Voorhis blushed and cleared his throat, “I tried to keep her here, Your Majesty, but she keeps disappearing every time she thinks of a task that needs doing. First to Maribor to scout, then to southern Nilfgaard to bring word of our triumph, now Novigrad. How am I to protect her if she is not even in the same country!”

Emhyr gazed at him and abruptly felt a wash of pity for the man. He stepped up beside him and turned to survey the troops. Voorhis fell into place beside him instinctively. “She is much like her mother, really. Pavetta would not stand to see her kingdom mismanaged and was forever riding off to berate this general or that Duke. She was never a wife who would let her husband rule her. We were partners more than Lord and wife.”

Voorhis took that in before gathering his courage to remark, “Actually I have found she is very much like you, Majesty. She is relentless.” Emhyr thought he would stop there but the general continued quietly, “She cares about the men, the army, more than I thought a lone wandering warrior would. She is a good commander. She inspires the same devotion from her troops as her father’s does.” 

With that remarkable statement still hanging in the air, Voorhis bowed and retreated from his Emperor’s side. Emhyr narrowed his eyes at Voorhis’s retreating back. Could he trust that expression of loyalty? Over the years, Emhyr had reluctantly found himself liking Morvrain. It was extremely inconvenient when there was a high likelihood Emhyr would have to have the man killed.

They set up camp after a three quarter day march and half the soldiers lay down to rest while the other stood on call to fight. They switched at two hours after sunset. By midnight, the whole camp was up to see the expected miracle. The weary sorceress set up the enlarged circle and the newly injured were herded inside. There were mutterings that this was all a trick and the wounded were being sacrificed to some dark god by the sorceresses, but those mutters were silenced as the midnight bell began to toll and the injured soldiers were replaced by the soldiers which had disappeared last night. But instead of weary, wounded, heartsore men, these soldiers were well fed, healthy, and strong. Cheers went up as the men mixed and mingled; finding old friends and shield brothers, the healthy telling the weary about their magical year within a day.

It took till dawn to get the returned soldiers reorganized back into their squads. They set off again but the mood was distinctly cheerful for the march. One squad began a marching song that spread up and down the column. Voorhis and the other commanders sang cheerfully while Emhyr relaxed into his saddle and pulled out Geralt’s letter to him. It would be another day’s march before the reached Maribor. He had plenty of time to read and write.

_Ploughing Hell Emhyr!  
You certainly took me at my word, didn’t you? The soldiers and peasants are settling in well. It’s been about a month and I think it took that long for everyone to stop looking at the witcher children side eyed. Some of the peasantry thought we were demons that they had been sacrificed too. However food, rest, and labor work wonders for curious trainees as well as curious peasants. The great hall was repaired first off and so far every adult is crammed in there. The witchers have offered to share their rooms upstairs, but I am reluctant to let them. They survived. They earned their privacy. They don’t deserve yokels staring at them when they try to rest. We are building the barracks next._

_I am very amused when I reread your revelations about Ciri. She is quite the warrior now, and well I know it. Has she ever told about she and I went hunting for the Crones of Crookback Bog and Imlereth of the Wild Hunt at the Witch’s Sabbath? It is quite a tale. That reminds me. As you are crossing Velen, stay out of Crookback Bog. There is one Crone left alive and she may be getting stronger; supping on the death and fear. Ciri, Eskal, and Lambert could handle her alone, but she can call monsters to her aid. Just be careful. You’ve got four more days to stay alive._

_The children are doing well. I suppose I should start calling them men and women. They are sixteen now all afire with hormones and attitude. Don’t worry. I have enlisted your sergeants to help me beat the foolishness out of them and instill some healthy caution and sense. Good men, these sergeants. They were wasting their time while the soldiers were healing, so they found their way to our training yard. They’ve been a great help._

_We didn’t lose anyone to the Trial of the Dreams. Thank Melitele._

_Geralt_

\------------ 

_Witcher,_

_The army is much improved with the return of their no-longer injured brothers. You took good care of them and I thank you. The march went well today. I believe we will reach Maribor tomorrow. I see from the reports you wrote later in the year that many improvements have been made to Kaer Morhen. I am pleased that the peasantry and soldiers were able to aid you. I will not be able to send more supplies tonight. We need all we have to reach Maribor. Only a few injured will be joining you this year. They are under your command._

_I know it will not please you, but the men have taken to referring to you as the Lord of Kaer Morhen. It was inevitable, really, so I have done little to dissuade them. I know you don’t see yourself this way, but better they fit you into their normal view of the world than to continue to fear you as a demon or weird creature. Cirilla seems to find your title incredibly hilarious._

_I asked Cirilla of the tale you mentioned. I found myself more exasperated at you both than proud; although I do admit to pride as well. Did you have to instill your love of headstrong charges to my heir? You have made her a hero. There are times I wish you had raised her with more sense. Nevertheless, thank you for the warning of the Crone._

_I expect there will be more injured coming to you tomorrow night. Either Maribor will be under siege with monsters and we will have a fight on our hands, or we will be sending the city’s wounded after we make camp. With decent fortifications and plenty of arable land, I will begin sending for our outlying armies to begin bringing the rest of the refugees in. Please let me know if the strain of extra mouths to feed is too much, but your aid will significantly speed my plans._

_By the way, how are you feeding everyone?_

_Faithfully,  
Emhyr _

\------------ 

_Dear Emhyr,_

_Faithfully? Faithfully? I suppose this correspondence has been faithful, but are you trying to forget your betrayal of me and our friendship? I suppose you never thought of it that way, but I cared for your daughter the best I could and you put a price on my head. You threatened Yennifer. You captured us._ A large scribble stained the page.

_I thought about throwing away the above. I was angry, but I am often angry when I think about you. I figure that the best time to air those grievances is when I am indispensable to you and in a different dimension. I never feared what you would do to me, but you have always been willing to hurt others to punish the one you are really angry at._

_I don’t even know why I am writing this. You confuse me so much. It was easier when you were younger._

_It’s taken me almost a whole year to write this letter. It’s stupid. I’m not angry at you, at least not in the way I have expressed here or you probably imagine. I’m angry because I wish you were still my friend who died in a shipwreck. I understand an Emperor can’t be that man anymore._

_Geralt_

\------------ 

_Witcher,_

_I will not apologize for doing all that I did to find my daughter. I know you suffered for it and many of my other actions. These were not the actions of a friend, as you said. They were the actions of an Emperor._

A small ink spot marred the page as if the author had rested his pen on the page too long.

_The last of the soldiers and dependents came through last night without any difficulty. They can only say good things about your care of them. Maribor is now firmly under my control and the farmers have begun harvesting in preparation for winter. The fields here are abundant and we will have plenty of food to welcome you all tomorrow night. My armies formally stationed along the Pontar have regrouped here and we are ready to begin the work of retaking this land in earnest. We await your arrival._

_Emhyr  
\- I miss my friend, as well. _

\------------ 

All of Maribor was awake and waiting for midnight on the tenth day. By now, everyone had heard tales of the magical fortress Kaer Morhen and the heroic witchers training there. Monsters attacked Maribor several times a day and more and more refugees from monster attacks made their weary way to the city. The elite monster slayers of legend would be welcomed as no witchers had been before. Emhyr was almost sad that they would be losing the resource Kaer Morhen had become; it was the perfect shelter for the wounded and infirm. However Yennifer and Triss refused to entertain the thought of Geralt loosing even more years trapped outside of time and the rest of the Lodge backed them. Cirilla was also eager to see her foster father again. Emhyr refused to entertain any thought of his own feelings towards the Witcher’s return.

Finally the midnight bells began to toll. The crowds waiting hushed in anticipation as the portal light grew. The final bell tolled. The city cheered with one voice as young men and women armed to the teeth and armored appeared before them. Emhyr stood and his eyes narrowed: there were only thirty witchers where there should be thirty-one. 

His daughter turned to him and her eyes were wide with fear, “Where is Geralt?!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed
> 
> I tried so hard to get the letters to be italicized. Failure...

When Emhyr walked into his study where the sorceresses had been summoned, he was greeted by a cacophony of indignation, panic, and consolation. He had given the sorceresses three hours to find out exactly why Geralt was missing. Their conclusions had not been satisfactory. His spies had given him much more information than the sorceresses had. It was amazing what people would say when they thought they were unobserved. Also when they were angry; for example, when they had been left waiting in a small room without chairs for an hour. Well, no chairs but his. Not a single one of them had tried to sit in his chair. His spy spent that hour watching through a peephole and had informed him of how quickly the culprit had tried to sway the others to her favor, who she avoided, and the arguments she had used.

“What is the meaning of this display?” Emhyr’s deep voice cut through the shrill tones and settled the room into a grave silence. Emhyr felt the tension in the room rise with every step he took until he sat behind his desk. It hung in the air like an overtightened lute string; ready to snap.

“One of you has lied to me.”

The tension grew impossibly tenser as the sorceresses looked worriedly at the guards filing in along the edges of the room: conspicuously equipped with dimeritium shackles. Emhyr spoke and his voice was low enough that against their own better judgement, the women leaned in closer to him.

“I have welcomed you for your talents, given you good work and more comforts than any other member of my retinue, even in this time of shortage. You have had free reign upon my resources to continue your own research. Is this not generous?” Emhyr looked up and the sorceresses flinched back, “All I have asked of you is to work for the betterment of mankind, follow my orders when necessary, and, above all, be honest with me about your workings.”

His head turned slowly to Phillipa Eilhart, “Would you care to explain your reasoning behind this betrayal of my trust, Mistress Eilhart?”

Phillipa didn’t flinch. With her long experience as a courtier, she managed to limit her surprise to a slow clench of her fingers. An interesting tell. The more nervous among the group flinched for her. Phillipa raised her blind eyes and tilted her head, birdlike.

“Betrayal? I did what I did for the betterment of mankind.”

Emhyr waited half a moment to see if she would continue. “What you have done may have benefited mankind. Whether you did it for mankind, remains to be seen.”

Every sorceress seemed shocked at his reply. Even Phillipa had clearly not expected him to take that track. Triss shook her fiery mane in astonishment, “How can you say that, your Majesty? She has condemned Geralt to never leave Kaer Morhen ever again!” She threw out a finger to point at Phillipa accusingly, “The barrier is permanent! Until Ciri or Geralt dies, Kaer Morhen will remain outside of time and Geralt will be trapped there, aging a year every day!”

Phillipa’s thin lips twisted into a wry smirk. “Perhaps we will see if witchers truly are immortal after all.”

Her smirk did not last long as Yennifer attacked her unexpectedly from behind and the pair went down in a snarling clawing cat fight. Emhyr raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. He waited a moment; expecting the sorceresses to pull their companions apart. When none of them intervened, he lifted his eyes briefly to the celling and took in a silent breath of exasperation. He gestured and the soldiers tore the two women apart. To the surprise of no one, Phillipa was definitely the worse off. Her blindfold was shredded; forcing her to bear the humiliation of the whole room seeing the ruin of her eyes. The other minor injuries she obtained seemed little enough to the way she kept turning her head as it to hide her face. Yennifer wore a pleased smirk on her bloodied lip.

“Phillipa, explain your reasoning.”

The woman hissed out an inaudible curse toward Yennifer but complied with Emhyr’s command. “It was simple numbers. The amount of witchers we have gained is significant, but it pales in comparison to the amount we could obtain. This was obvious from the start. What was equally obvious was your precious Geralt’s reluctance to sully his conscious. He would never have agreed to sentencing a vast quantity of children to painful death, even with the world in need. He would tell himself, “Only thirty witchers. That will be enough.” Her lips twisted in a cruel snarl, “I told you that Letho and the School of the Viper was the better choice than the softhearted Wolf!”

Yennifer paled while Triss gasped in shock. They both turned to Emhyr. “You told us there was no other choice.” Triss said, “You had Letho available to be the Witcher trainer?”

Enhyr frowned and lifted a hand, “She is trying to distract you from the matter at hand, BUT,” he cut off their arguments, “I will explain. Letho while available, was never a satisfactory choice. For the past three decades, Letho has specialized in hunting men, not monsters. While Geralt has risen to new heights in his mastery, Letho has taken another path. A path which currently has little value to me.” He raised a hand to stop further protests. “If you wish to argue this with me at a later time, then I will make myself available to you. However currently I am interested in understanding why Phillipa did not come to me with this argument before the portal spell was cast.”

Phillipa turned to snarl at Yennifer, “Because of her! Because of Triss! They are so beguiled by the man’s cock that they would never have allowed for him to be taken from them forever.”

Emhyr silently tilted his head, “I think you underestimate them as well as my own powers of persuasion.”

Phillipa smiled handsomely, sensing that she was on the winning side, “Perhaps, your Majesty. It is clear that I should have included you in my confidence and not acted on my own. I hope you will forgive me, seeing as how my intentions were for the best. We have only gained from my intervention after all.” When Emhyr sat silent, she coughed and smiled again. “A hidden fortress outside of time, the benefits it has had towards our injured and infirm, and with a teacher as renowned as Master Geralt of Rivia, as many witchers as we can find the children to supply Geralt with; all this is surely worth my deception.”

Emhyr frowned, “I have not called you here to barter with you, Phillipa. You are here to answer my questions and that you have not done to my satisfaction.” The other sorceresses shifted uneasily as the guards moved through them to surround Phillipa. 

She flinched from them, “My lord, I protest. I have done no wrong I have not explained.” Emhyr gestured and a guard reached for Phillipa’s hand. She tugged it away with another, “My Lord!”

Emhyr simply looked at her coldly, “Your reluctance to put your fate in my hand leads me to believe there are more actions you are hiding from me. Is this true, Phillipa?” He watched as she floundered, unable to protest being bound without seeming more untrustworthy. Finally, she submitted to having her hands bound with dimeritium and even managed a sweet smile. “I have nothing to hide.”

Emhyr nodded calmly, “Then answer my questions. Why did you wait for us to find out about your alteration to the spell ourselves rather than telling us?

Phillipa looked confused, “Sire?”

“You have claimed your alteration was done with good intentions. This alteration was unchangeable from the very beginning. It has been ten days since then; plenty of time to convince us of the righteousness of your decision. Plenty of time to gain allies or make your case. Instead you hid your actions like a criminal. You did not even speak up when we began moving massive amounts of people through the portal. So many good moments to confess. Why continue to hide it?”

Phillipa’s confusion did not wane, “Uh well, under the circumstances, I thought it best.” She said hesitantly.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, “The circumstances being that you did not want to get caught? That you might be able to escape taking responsibility for your actions? Perhaps you expected you might be punished for such actions?”

Phillipa lifted her hands, still shackled with dimeritium, “With just cause, I think, your majesty.”

Emhyr nodded, “I see. Then perhaps I should clarify my position. When you are punished, and you will be…” He eyed her shiver at his words with all the interest of a well fed tiger, “It will not be for altering the spell. Had you made your case to me, I would have allowed it and helped you to convince the rest of the lodge.” Yennifer and Triss started as it to speak but his eyes settling on them quelled them quickly. “You will be punished in a mild fashion for hiding your actions from me. I will not allow such duplicity from those closest to me. For that, I believe baring you from any court position in Nilfgaard or any of our controlling territories for life should be sufficient.”

“My lord, please, I…”

Emhyr rode over the top of her protests with a statement that rendered the entire room silent, “You shall be severely punished for your actions against Master Geralt and, indeed, for endangering our entire enterprise.”

Shocked silence reigned. Emhyr stood slowly and leaned forward with his hand on his desk. His eyes pinned Phillipa to the spot like a butterfly on a card. “Perhaps you were truly foolish enough to give it no thought. Perhaps you were simply heartless enough to care not at all. It matters not. By hiding your actions, by letting us move ahead with our plans as normal, by not taking responsibility: you have sentenced not only an innocent man but a good man, Geralt of Rivia, to an entire year of solitary confinement.” He slammed his hand down on his desk and let the whole room see how angry he was. “We were even alone, here in my study, while we were planning how best to remove all personnel from Kaer Morhen in this last opening of the portal. You could have told me, and me alone, what you had done. Instead you kept silent. You knew that Geralt would be left alone and did nothing.”

Phillipa hid her confusion behind a cowed expression as the furious tones of Emhyr’s statement echoed in the room. Emhyr continued in a voice barely louder than a gentle hum, “Perhaps you are not aware of the effects of solitary confinement upon a human being. As I have had the pleasure of sentencing many a prisoner to such a fate, let me enlighten you.” He straightened and began pacing around the desk and closer to her. With each step he took, he listed another symptom.

“Hallucinations, panic attacks, paranoia, difficulties with thinking and reasoning, loss of self-control, obsession, social atrophy, self-mutilation,” Phillipa flinched back from him, but he came on, “He’ll have a whole valley to roam, but that will not matter one bit after another three hours. After three month of solitary confinement, every prisoner I have ever sentenced for so long has tried to take their own life.” Emhyr barely noticed the cries of shock and distress from the other sorceresses, “Perhaps he’ll be able to hold onto his sanity for a time due to his incredible endurance as a witcher, but there are several reports of witchers going mad. He is certainly not immune.” He towered over Phillipa and felt a dark vindictive joy from her sincerely terror filled expression, “You have sentenced the Master Witcher to suicidal madness, for no better reason than to try and save your own skin. Such selfishness is hardly worthy of my generosity.”

Phillipa felt to her knees begging but there was not a single soul in the room willing to listen. Emhyr ordered the guards to take her to the cells and slowly sat himself down behind his desk as she was dragged out, screaming protests. The sorceresses looked at him warily. Emhyr propped his chin up on one hand and eyed them back. “Lady Sorceresses, are there perhaps any other secrets that should be brought to my attention?” There were a few wide eyed stares but no one said anything. “Then you are dismissed. Mistresses Yennifer and Triss, remain behind.” Emhyr would wager the sorceresses had never left a room so quickly.

Unsurprisingly, Triss was the one brave enough to storm the lion in his den. “Were you exaggerating? Trying to terrify them so none of them would hide things from you again?”

Emhyr lips twisted in a bitter smile, “Unfortunately that was simply a happy side effect of telling the absolute truth.” Emhyr’s thumb shifted slightly to rub tiredly along his jaw before stilling, “If Geralt survives this year in a day with his mind and body intact, it will be entirely because of his strength of character and will. The only way we can help him is if we can somehow contact him.” He looked up at the two women, “Is there any way?”

Triss wore a helpless look but Yennifer bit her lip and shook her head, “I refuse to think otherwise. I will be in my study should you require my presence, Majesty.” Emhyr dismissed her with a wave of his hand. 

Triss took a few steps after her but turned back, “Your Majesty, what will you do to Phillipa?”

Emhyr discreetly hid a silent snarl behind his hand and spoke with composure, “As much as I would like to do away with her, she is still far too useful. She will experience a week of the solitary confinement she so callously sentenced Geralt to, before being released. She will wear dimeritium shackles until our position is more secure. I have no intention of allowing her to fly away from her responsibilities and oaths.” 

Triss threw out a satisfied hum of acknowledgement and curtsied before following after Yennifer. Emhyr sat at his desk briefly but then stood to gaze out his window. His finger tapped rhythmically on the windowsill. There was much he should be doing, but he found he could not stop thinking about Geralt. He refused to admit that he was worried about the man himself. It was his abilities as a teacher that was valued and in danger. How could the man teach if he became anything like the wretches Emhyr had seen in his prisons?

The city bells began tolling the alarm and, for once, Emhyr welcomed an attack, if only to escape from his thoughts. He strode out to join his city general on the walls of the inner keep. In the city below, soldiers were massing and citizens were running to shelter in whatever house they could reach. Soldiers stood ready on the walls of the city. Maribor had three rings of walls to separate it from the countryside. Homes, storehouses, and buildings filled the spaces between them except where road cut through. 

“What news, General?”

The man gave a short bow before reporting, “Our scouts say a flight of wyverns is headed toward the city. We’ve never seen wyvern flocking together in such numbers before. Our archers are on the walls with swordsman ready to cover them if the wyverns land.” Emhyr nodded in approval just as the flight of wyverns appeared on the horizon.

It was certainly no horde of vampires but the creatures were big and definitely fast. The flight was upon the city almost as soon as they were sighted. The bowmen fired the crossbows with accuracy but, though the wyverns shrieked in pain, none fell from the sky. Soon the wyverns began to dive upon the soldiers. The men screamed as they were knocked from the wall or lifted into the sky either to be dropped from height or torn apart between wyverns.

The General swore and ordered the catapults loaded. “Belay that order!” Emhyr’s voice rang out and his General cried out.

“My Lord! I know that the city might take damage, but we must get them out of the sky if we have any hope to kill them!”

Emhyr pointed out over the city, “I think we may have other options available.” The General followed the Emperor’s gaze and sucked in a surprised breath. 

One by one, the young witchers were climbing onto the city rooftops. Many of them took out a golden potion and chugged it down while others pulled strange looking contraptions from their gear which they began to whirl. A tall female witcher let loose with one. The rope and balls spun out across the sky. It smacked quickly into a wyvern’s wing, looped around it tightly, and the ball crunched into the wing’s hollow bones with a bone snapping crack. The wyvern screeched and fell from the sky immediately. “What is that thing?” a young attaché murmured and was answered by an elderly commander, “It’s a Zerikanian weapon, I think. They call it a bolas? Maybe.”

Soon the sky was full of the whirling weapons and wyverns were dropping everywhere. The soldiers fell upon the crippled draconids in coordinated swings of silver plated swords. When the wyverns realized just who were bringing them down, they swooped to attack the witchers. Emhyr enjoyed the jaws dropping around him as his general and captains watched witchers leap up and drag diving wyverns from the sky onto the swords of their companions. 

“They fight like demons!”  
“Did you see how he took its head off!”  
“No one could make that jump!”

Emhyr admitted to himself that even he had not thought the young witcher would be able to jump from a tower and land on a passing wyvern. The added weight bore the draconid swiftly down to the ground but the witcher avoided injury with almost negligent ease as he back flipped off onto a rooftop. The wyvern couldn’t avoid crashing to the stone streets with a sickening snap of its neck. Everywhere you looked, the witchers were taking down the monsters with grace and skill. They avoided the wyverns barbed tails or cut them off with swift counter attacks. Bombs flashed across the city and the dying screams of wyverns were drowned out by the cheers of triumphant soldiers.

“Send your scouts out to check for more and have the squads run routine sweeps through the city before we sound the all clear for the civilians.”

His General saluted, “It will be done, your Majesty. And sire…”

Emhyr turned to face the man, who bowed deeply in response. “My complements, sire. I followed your commands out of duty, but your wisdom was beyond the sight of common men. The witchers are all you promised us and more. I apologize for my lack of faith.”

Emhyr nodded gravely and waved the man off. He looked out over the triumphant battlefield. Geralt’s students were true wonders to behold. Yet Emhyr felt sick with a cold fear rolling in his belly. He raised his eyes to the sun. The glorious sun which shone upon his empire’s triumphs was now hateful to his eyes. It shone brilliantly at it zenith and Emhyr quietly despaired for Geralt. Six months alone in Kaer Morhan with six more to go.

\---------------  
__  
Dear Emhyr,  
What in the ploughing hells just happened? Everyone is gone and I’m still here! I waited on the portal until dawn but nothing happened. Well, I guess you know nothing happened cause I’m still here. Anyway, I am leaving this note on the portal while I go get my gear. If it activates while I’m gone, then at least you’ll know I’m still alive and not trapped in some collapsing whatsit, whatever Phillipa was yammering to me about ten years ago. I’ll be camping out on the portal so that whenever you get this straightened out, I won’t be halfway across the valley or something.  
Geralt  
P.S. Yeah I forgot what she said. It happens to us normal people.

__

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
I’ve written to everyone else and I figured I might as well write to you too. It been a few weeks now and I haven’t given up on the portal opening; although hanging around here waiting for it to open is possibly the most boring thing I can imagine. It is so perfectly fucking peaceful here now. Not a troll, not a forktail, not even any wild sheep anymore after the lads got through with them. I’m in the best shape of my life because I do nothing but eat, sleep, and exercise. It’s the only thing I can do out here in the middle of the road.  
I wish I’d left Roach here. I mean she might not talk back but at least she would be someone to talk to, you know?”  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
It’s been a month and I’m moving back to Kaer Morhen. I’ll try to keep myself busy with reorganizing the library. Maybe even organize those reports you keep sending me into coherent bestiaries of these new monsters. If you do get the portal open and I’m not there, please open it again. I’ll try to keep myself busy.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Emhyr,  
It’s been two months. Please, get the portal open soon.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Emhyr,  
Do I need to beg? Is that what you want to hear? Never got the witcher to give you any respect, so now you’re going to take it? Fuck you! 

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
I tried to drown myself in the lake today. I put on my heaviest gear and swam out at far as I could and just let myself sink. Then the damndest thing happened. Drowners attacked me! There are fucking drowners in the lake! I thought we killed them all off years ago! There I was trying to end my life and some pissant Drowner swims up and tries to take a chuck out of my thigh. Oh boy, did he not like what I had to give him in return. I had to strangle him with my bare hands cause I had left my crossbow in the keep. Fucking thing nearly tore my throat out, but I got the bastard. I waded out of the lake feeling more alive than I’ve felt in months. Funny how drowners, of all things, saved my life.  
I’m going to spend the next few weeks studying them from afar; try to get a handle on their numbers. Maybe chum the waters a bit. See if I can get them breeding. It seems shitty to hunt them like some fucking noble man might hunt the deer on his estate for sport, but gods I need this.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
It’s been four months. I’ve taken to writing letters as if I am holding conversations with the person I’m writing too. I started doing it after I realized that I hadn’t spoken a single word aloud in months. I considered capturing a drowner alive and keeping it locked up in the holding cells just so I can talk to it, but it seemed rather cruel. So I’m gonna try this for a while and use that as my backup plan. Yeah, I can just imagine your expression. You know, I never wanted to talk to the Emperor of Nilfgaard. I mean, what could we even talk about really? Obviously we are not going to talk about Pavetta. I’m not an idiot, despite what you think. You know, fuck you, Emhyr.  
Gods, even my imaginary conversations with you end up as arguments. Better end this here.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
I’ve stopped writing to everyone except you and Ciri. Why you two? Well, that’s easy. I bet it this were real you would already know without me saying it. Of course, it is because I know the others too well. I mean, every time I tried to think of things to say to them, I knew exactly what they might say in reply. It was one or two variations, but the gist was always obvious to me. I don’t know. I said, I don’t know why that mattered! I don’t know; it just seemed more like I was talking to myself. Gods, yes Emhyr, I know this is exactly like talking to myself, but see that is just it! I don’t know if that is really how you would have answered me. I look back at that sentence, imagine saying it to you, and each time in my mind you react differently. Even when I imagine you ignoring me, it seems new and different.  
With Ciri, it’s not quite the same. I’ve spent so long missing her that missing her now just seems familiar. Like a little piece of reality. There were hundreds of days on the Path when I would see something interesting and I would imagine telling Ciri about it. Hundreds of nights, I’d lay under the stars and I’d remember telling her the stories of the constellations. A sunset or a sunrise I might pretend to look at with her. So writing her these letters are more comforting than stimulating.  
Oh god, I can just imagine how much she would laugh if she knew I just admitted that writing letters to you was “stimulating”. Not that way, Ciri!  
Geralt  
P.S. Although you have kept quite trim for a paper pushing Emperor. How did you find time to exercise? 

\--------------- 

Dear Emhyr,  
I saw Vesemir today. He passed me in the hall and clapped a hand on my shoulder. I was all the way to the kitchen before I remembered he was dead.  
Of course it scared me! No, wait. You wouldn’t ask that. You’d never be concerned for my emotional state. No, I haven’t had hallucinations before. Yes, it was very real or at least I thought it was.  
I need something to distract me and I am running out of options. What would you do to distract me if you were here?  
Um, ok. Hadn’t thought of that before. I thought for sure I’d picture you asking me to a game of gwent or ordering me out to find my own entertainment elsewhere. But I swear, the first thought that popped into my mind was you ordering me to strip.  
That’s fucking hot, Emhyr. Just saying. And my mind is officially off of my old father figure, that’s for sure.  
I’d better make sure to burn this later. If that portal ever opens up again, then there is no way I want you to read this.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

Um…Emhyr,  
I can’t find the last letter I wrote you. I mean, I think I burned it, but I don’t remember. Seriously, not the time to mock me about amnesia. Well, the thing is, I kinda wrote something about some lewd thoughts I might have had about you. So if you find the letter, I guess I’m trying to apologize. For writing it down, I mean. Not for having the thoughts. Yeah no. Those I am definitely not apologizing for; or for any other thoughts I may or may not have had later. I’m all alone with my thoughts here, Emhyr. You can’t blame a man for thinking the most attractive thoughts possible.  
Yeah, I should stop drinking before I write to you.  
But on the other hand, if I am too drunk to jerk off, then I can’t jerk off to thoughts of you. Or your voice. Or your desk.  
Ah, guess I need to drink more.  
Geralt 

\--------------- 

__Emhyr,  
I feel oddly clear headed this morning. I am trying to guess how long it has been since my last letter, but I’m having a little difficulty remembering what day it is. There is a sun calendar on the mountain. If I remember to, then I will climb up and take a look at it. It is the beginning of winter so I imagine that it has been almost nine months now. In my clear headed moments, I understand that you must not have been able to open the portal any earlier than scheduled. So I have three more months to contend with. I’m going to do my best.  
When you send your spies with the next load of people (Please send people if you can’t pull me back!!!) and they find these letters, I hope you will not think too heavily on their contents. I’m trying to stay sane by whatever means are necessary. I have written page after page of letters to you only to toss them into the fire. I only kept the ones I felt were closest to your true character and only so I can look at them again. When I read them aloud, it is almost as if you are here with me. I’d include an apology to Ciri, but I think she would hit me for apologizing for surviving. I don’t know if you would do the same. It does seem like an attitude that she might have gotten from you, though.  
Between my extraordinarily ridiculous drowner hunts, the wine cellar I unearthed, and these letters, I do think I will be well enough come spring. A little odder, perhaps, but well. In some way, I think winter will be something of a relief. I am supposed to be wintering at Kaer Morhen in winter time. If I just imagine a bit, maybe I can get hallucinations of Eskal and Lambert working around the keep for a little company. I’m joking, Emhyr. I promise not to try and induce hallucinations. I’ll spend the winter preparing for more students. I’ve had a long time to think and the conclusion I have come to is; that the promise that I would only have to stay here ten years and only train thirty witchers was a load of bullshite. No way thirty witchers would be enough.  
The only thing I refuse to imagine is asking whether you lied to me or you were lied to. I don’t want to know your answer. I’m too afraid of losing my only friend here.  
Geralt  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments. I have enjoyed reading them very much and they have been a great motivator for me. I'd love to go through and reply personally to you all, but it may have to wait for a less busy time. I can't say this is my best chapter. Baby has started teething and that makes finding time for writing tricky. Sleep is for the weak, right?

There was something no one was telling her and Ciri was determined to find out what it was. She was cleaning wyvern blood off of her blade surrounded by the excited voices of the young witchers. It wasn’t exactly easy to think while Eskel and Lambert were giving them a practical review of wyvern biology; since the young witchers had only been able to study monster theoretically in Kaer Morhen. However she would make do. Something about the situation bothered her. Everything seemed normal except for a severe lack of sorceresses and sorcerers who normally would have taken the field during a monster attack. That seemed like a good enough clue to start with. She had always found Geralt’s advice for tracking animals to be just as good for hunting out secrets.

Number one: When you find a set of tracks; stop, look, listen, smell and watch your surroundings.

No magic users on the field meant they were somewhere else; doing something more important than defending the city. Ciri looked around to see if anyone else was missing. She could see the usual band of officers were on the walls. Lambert’s voice was still squawking out over Eskel’s deeper tone behind her. Emhyr was… She caught just the barest glimpse of his back as the Emperor reentered the keep. Ciri frowned. It wasn’t like Emhyr to leave the field before the official cleanup had finished. Looks like she found her next track.

Number two: All the information you need to find the next track is within the one you have. Never skip a track, it doesn't teach you anything. If you hit a dead-end and can't find the next track, work at it, analyze it. If you spend 1- 2 hours to find the next track, you’ll only get better.

Cir blew out a breath. Emhyr was a most difficult track to figure out. He was full of Red Herrings, backtracks, and obstacles. “Off we go,” she said with mock cheerfulness, “How bad could this be?”

It was terrible. Emhyr stonewalled her with perfect grace. Yes, the sorceresses were working on something. No, she may not bother them at this critical stage. Yes, of course, it had to do with Geralt, but he had reason to believe the witcher was alive and well. Of course, he would tell her.

After midnight.

It was infuriating. The more so because to gain these tiny fragments of information, she’d had to give up far more than she ever wanted too. She had to consent to emergency etiquette lessons.

“Why on earth would I care about etiquette at a time like this?” Ciri asked testily as a matronly woman cinched her into a Nilfgaardian gown. On the other side of the dressing screen, she heard Emhyr snort rudely.

“Do you imagine the nobility of Nilfgaard have sat quietly by during this time of crisis? If they are not planning full out revolution, I will be very much suppressed. At the very least, they will be plotting to bring me to heel by denying our armies critically necessary supplies.”

Ciri huffed out a breath as the cinch pulled tight, “That’s ridiculous. The world is facing a major crisis and they are playing politics now?” She stepped out from behind the screen. Emhyr’s eyes picked over every inch of her and Ciri felt dreadfully exposed, despite the yards of fabric hanging from her.

“Remember Cirilla, there is a standing army encamped within ten miles of the city which had protected Nilfgaard for years. With Eskel, Lambert, and your help, the City of the Golden Towers has encountered no major attacks since the Conjunction began. It is too far from the point of Conjunction for many monsters to be appearing there yet. In a year or two, yes they will understand the scope of the disaster, but for now this war on monsters is merely more outlandish reports from the North and a drain on their treasuries. They most certainly believe I am exaggerating reports in an attempt to cling to the throne longer than required.” He shook his head, “That will not do, Madam. The next.”

The woman curtseyed before shooing Ciri behind the screen again. Ciri sighed as she had to change clothes again, “What exactly are you looking for? Madam Vortian said you ordered ten gowns from her months ago. Don’t you like any of them?”

“Madam’s skills are not in question. Your reputation however has changed greatly from when the gowns were ordered. You must have an outfit which will appease Nilfgaardian sensibilities, yet also proclaims you the conquering hero the army knows you to be. You are my heir, a fact which has upset many who support Morvran, my heir presumptive for years. They will oppose you, so we must build upon the reputation you have already gained when we appear before the Court of the Sun in Nilfgaard on the morrow.”

Ciri popped her head out from behind the screen despite Madam’s irate protest, “Tomorrow?!”

Emhyr nodded, “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the establishment of Nilfgaard. You will bring us to the Court of the Sun at noon, the most auspicious moment. With a bit of political posturing and maneuvers, such drama will build the proper reputation you shall need to succeed me within a year or two.”

Ciri’s eyes were wide, “I had no idea you planned it to be so soon.”

Emhyr shrugged impassively, “Without cutting a bloody swath through the nobility, my recession is inevitable. Better to do so on my terms and to aid my heir.”

Ciri blew out a breath. The madam adjusted a last silk strap before proclaiming her prefect. Ciri stepped out and notice immediate approval in Emhyr’s eyes. The gown was traditional Nilfgaardian black but with bold blood red accents; in particular, long crimson sleeves which seemed oddly cut until Ciri realized she could draw her sword almost as easily as ever. The skirt was cut away as well. Not to an improper length but with layers of light black silk and slits lined with red. Emhyr nodded in satisfaction as he ordered the madam, “Have the Princess’ armor washed in gold and appropriate sheathes for her weapons matched by the second bell after dawn tomorrow.”

The matron curtseyed and left Emhyr alone with his daughter, “Yes, I think you will do.” He fingered a sleeve, “Gold is the traditional accompaniment to black for commanders, but I think the red will get our statement across.”

Ciri scowled as she looked up at him, “That statement being?”

Emhyr smiled coldly, “That you are a blooded warrior, of course. They need to see a Queen, willing to shed blood to lead her country to victory, not a beautiful Princess requiring their sheltering care.” He raised a hand to tuck an errant strand of her silver hair behind her ear, “Tomorrow will be a battle unlike any you have fought before, but I have confidence in your ability. Mererid waits to instruct you in the formalities. Go and prepare.”

The instruction, as Emhyr called it, took the rest of the day and evening. They didn’t even stop for dinner; Mererid instructed her on formal dining etiquette through the whole meal. To her dismay, the man was perfectly polite about the whole thing, which meant Ciri couldn’t swear at him even a little, no matter how aggravating he was being. She felt thoroughly cheated.

Ciri demanded a halt when the hour approached midnight. She ran through the halls, ignoring all that formality she had just learned, but she didn’t find Emhyr in his study with the portal as she had expected. She barely found them in time, darting out onto a wide parade ground just in time to see Triss, Yennifer, and a huge mass of children disappear in a flash of silver light. Rather than Geralt’s usual letters, a single sheet of paper lay on the rug. Emhyr picked it up and read it as she stormed over to him. She studied him with admirable patience. Was his skin a trifle paler or was it an effect of the moonlight? He raised his eyes to her and, ever so slowly, held out the letter.

Ciri took it, read it, and then read it again to be sure. “What is the meaning of this?” she waved the letter in his face. “Are you trying to trick me?” 

Emhyr shook his head gravely, “That is Geralt of Rivia’s handwriting, is it not? Do you suspect he would collude with me in such a way?”

“But,” Ciri faltered, “But it doesn’t make sense.” The letter was a wash of unfinished sentences, confused dialogue, and wandering observation. It referenced other letters which clearly had not been brought out to the portal. The clearest information to be gained was that Geralt now believed Kaer Morhen to be haunted, his exorcism attempts had failed, and he was now living in the mountains which surrounded it. Ciri felt like a little girl again, lost in the woods, at this strange shift by her foster father’s correspondence with them.

Emhyr just looked at her. The something softened in the corner of his eye, “Come inside, Cirilla, and I shall explain.”

\--------------

“Phillipa Eilhart. I’m going to kill her.” Ciri stated with dreadful finality.

“No, you are not.” Emhyr replied.

That kicked of their fifth fight. It was the loudest, longest, and most infuriating yet. At the end of it, Ciri stormed out of her father’s office with a face like a storm cloud. The few nobles still up past midnight fled from her path. She turned a corner and ran straight into General Morvran. She rubbed at her nose where it had impacted on the big medallion he wore and glared up at him. The man looked astonished.

“My lady?” he began and his infuriatingly gracious tones just stoked the flames of her fury higher.

“You’ll do.” She announced and dragged the man off to a practice court. He protested all the way, but was too gentlemanly to actually do anything to stop her from manhandling him. She tossed him a practice sword, gave him the very barest of a salute, and charged at him.

Half an hour later, they had both stripped down to their shirts, were dripping with sweat, and Morvran was sitting on the floor looking like if he tried to stand that he might keel over. Ciri gave a great sigh and flopped down next to him. “I hate him.” She muttered in frustration.

Morvran wiped his sweaty hair out of his eyes and panted, “The Emperor, my …” He cut off the ‘my lady’ because of his panting and then seemed to decide proper etiquette was not worth his breath.

Ciri threw her hands up in disgust, “He’s like a great cold mountain that I can throw myself against all I want and nothing ever so much as makes a dent! Then he twists you around and around until you are either agreeing with him or just arguing for the sake of arguing while you secretly know he was right all along! It is so utterly infuriating!” 

She huffed out a great sigh of aggravation and turned her head towards him to keep complaining, but was brought up short by the peculiar look on the General’s face.

Morvran hesitated but then broke into a helpless smile, “My lady, I know exactly what you mean.” He said, with feeling. Very deep feeling. Ciri couldn’t help but chuckle at his hangdog expression. 

The two began to commiserate on various situations where Emhyr had made them feel the fool or knocked them off their high horse or just completely bewildered them. Ciri laughed again and again as the General, after a furtive look around for eavesdroppers, kept the stories coming. 

Soon she couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so much. When she looked up at the General, she saw the most honest expression of pleasure on his face; as if making her laugh was actually making him happy. Ciri found herself breathless for another reason. The young woman didn’t hesitate. She leaned in and kissed him. 

It was a good kiss, despite Morvran being shocked into stillness at the beginning of it. Ciri smiled against his lips. When she pulled back, Morvran was watching her with a particularly satisfying wide eyed expression. She smiled, stood, and pulled him to his feet. Her smile turned mischievous and she swept him her very best curtsey from all her afternoon practicing; despite wearing trousers.

“Thank you for a delightful evening, General.” She said pleasantly and strode regally out of the room. Once out of his sight, she giggled at his shock and ran for her rooms. She couldn’t help but touch the tip of her tongue to her lips; remembering how his kisses felt and smiling. So her rival to the throne could be more than a statue of Nilfgaardian civility. Interesting.

\------------------

Dawn came and with it left the witchers. Ciri watched with excitement and a hint of jealousy as the young men and woman stepped through portal after portal; each heading out to join their own battalion and finally take the fight to the monsters rather than just defending. Eskel and Lambert had each said goodbye to her personally before heading for their own fronts. It was a very lonely feeling with Triss and Yennifer in Kaer Morhen until midnight tonight and the witchers gone. Emhyr and she discussed all the likely business that she might have to contribute an opinion to and they consolidated their arguments about the Conjunction. It would be tricky to convince the nobles of the severity of the threat without letting them turn on Ciri herself as the one who started it all.

Finally she stood in the Maribor throne room in her dress and gold washed armor. She kept looking at herself in the mirror across the hall. Ciri didn’t recognize herself. Instead she kept thinking of her mother. Emhyr, also resplendent in black and gold was waiting beside her. General Morvran appeared a few moments later, looking confused as to why he had been ordered into formal dress for a meeting. “You didn’t tell him?” Ciri hissed to her father.

“It will be a good test for him.”

Ciri rolled her eyes.

“Your Majesties?” Morvran started cautiously.

Emhyr fixed his cool gaze on Morvran, “We go now to address the Court of the Sun in regards to the Conjunction and the efforts being made to defend humanity from it. Morvran Voorhis, for your long years of service, I give you this choice; to be made freely without repercussion. Stand with us when we enter the Court of the Sun, or Ciri will bring you in advance so you can stand with your father. Choose quickly.”

Indecision was clearly written on Morvran’s face. He looked between the two royals before swallowing. “With you, my Lord.” Emhyr raised an eyebrow and then nodded to Ciri.

Ciri took both of their hands and began visualizing the Court of the Sun. She had only seen a painting of it, but with her skills improving daily, soon she wouldn’t even need an image to bring herself to a place or time. She concentrated and they travelled. She began blinking the silver light out of her eyes, but before she could see clearly she felt someone take her hand, place it on an arm, and Emhyr’s whisper in her ear, “Don’t gawp.”

Her vision cleared and she hid a gasp in a controlled intake of breath. The Court of the Sun was magnificent. The huge area was an amphitheater. Nobles sat cluttered on tiered sides. Five desks sat center stage for the elected officials of the court. Between them and Nobles were tiny clusters of smaller desk simply filled to the brim with clerks. Behind the five desks against the back wall sat an ornate throne. Normally it sat empty unless the Emperor wished to take part in deliberations. A huge sun made of gold and jewels was inlaid in floor and the entire roof was glass panels so the noon sun could shine on the nobles of the Empire.

Ciri took this all in as she walked to the throne on Emhyr’s arm. She stood to the right of the throne and Morvran to the left as Emhyr sat. The room was totally silent from the shock of the emperor and his heirs appearing out of nowhere when reports had last had them in Maribor. Emhyr caught the amazed gaze of the Master of the Chamber and gave him a nod to continue business.

Soon the nobles shocked expressions gave way to cunning deliberations. Ciri side-eyed Morvran as Emhyr deftly began asserting his control over his nation in person. Ciri wasn’t too clear about the entire political situation but she had thought that Morvran was a representative of Emhyr’s opposition; the heir chosen by the opposition to appease the opposition. Yet he had been a faithful and, moreover, a talented general in Emhyr’s service for years. Ciri wondered if this very public declaration of support for Emhyr was how Morvran truly felt or if he simply wanted to hedge his bets.

The debate about the Conjunction was long and difficult but when the nobles saw the army representatives and both heirs siding with Emhyr, they gave way and passed a bill to strengthen the army supplies, equipment, and institute the draft. One old and clearly ill noblewoman was overcome by the casualty reports. She stood shakily and donated the entirety of her vast fortune to the army’s use. Ciri was so excited by the happy thoughts of where to spend the unexpected surplus to support their troops, that she was blindsided by Lord Voorhis.

Lord Voorhis stood, “Your Majesty, Your Heir of Body Cirilla’s marriage to my son, Morvran is now more imperative than ever if our situation is as dangerous as you say. At any moment, our royal line might be snuffed out. When may we expect the announcement of a wedding date?”

Shock was the only thing on her mind. Why hadn’t Emhyr told her? Couldn’t he have prepared her for this, oh somewhere in between dancing and table manners?! Luckily her practice with Emhyr did do one thing. She controlled her face. She reflected on the cool mountain lake of Kaer Morhen and managed to calm her heart beat in time to hear Emhyr’s reply.

“I am leaving the decision of my daughter’s marriage to her. She alone will decide if Morvran shall be her Emperor Consort.” Ciri found she could tell Emhyr was annoyed at Lord Voorhis’ presumption by the quick clipping of the T in Consort. Ciri took a deep breath as Voorhis’ cold eyes turned almost dismissively to hers. 

“Then what says the Lady?”

“I say that the matter of my heirs is my own business, Lord Voorhis.” She enjoyed his look at her defiance. She turned to the side to look at Morvran but the man wouldn’t meet her eyes. The tilt of his shoulder spoke for him however. He felt ashamed of his father’s bullying. She decided to give a little, to spare him further embarrassment, “However I have no objection to discussion of the matter.” She turned a truly imperious gaze back to Lord Voorhis, “The discussion will be between Lord Morvran and myself. Have I made my position clear, Lord Voorhis?”

His lips twisted, “Perfectly,”.

She nodded to him and he sat. She glanced aside to Emhyr, but he made no attempt to regain control of the session. Ciri blew out a breath, raised her chin, and called for any further business. The rest of the session went relatively smoothly. Ciri and her father passed control of the session back and forth between themselves and Ciri could see more and more nobles relaxing at this sign of the Emperor’s confidence in her. Just as the sun was beginning to pass out of sight of the giant glass roof, Emhyr ritually closed the session. What happened next actually happened too fast for her to comprehend. She just reacted.

Ciri felt her muscles relax after her quick movement. Her sword was in hand and she had stepped just slightly in front of Emhyr. An arrow lay at the Emperor’s feet; neatly cloven in two. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath in shock. Emhyr bent down and picked up the point of the arrow carefully. “Poison,” he remarked and the acoustics carried his voice to every noble there. He turned to Morvran and handed him the arrow. The General stiffened; clearly waiting to hear Imperial Judgement fall upon him. 

“General Morvran, I leave you in charge of the investigation. Send word when you have apprehended the traitors.”

Morvran breathed out and knelt, “As you wish, your majesty.”

Ciri took her father’s outstretched hand and without another word brought them back to Maribor.

\------------------

Once behind closed doors in Emhyr’s office, Ciri exploded. “Assassination! Are you kidding me?”

Emhyr sighed and lowered himself gracefully into his seat. “It was always a risk. I have not made a public appearance in Nilfgaard for three years. I had hoped the surprise nature of our visit would hold off most attempts, but I had good reason for having you wear your armor.” He looked up at her, “Of course, I am most grateful for your protection as well.”

Cir blustered, “I didn’t, I mean I would have but…” she blew out a big breath. “Was it Lord Voorhis?” 

“Unlikely, the man is far too cautious. One of his supporters probably.”

She threw up her hands, “Then why did you leave Morvran in charge of the investigation? He could let the real assassin off the hook and take one of his political enemies down in their place.”

Emhyr nodded, “He might, yes.”

Ciri scowled at him, “Is this another test?”

Emhyr actually smiled at that, “In more ways than one.”

Ciri hissed out a very rude expletive. “Were you going to tell me that Morvran’s father basically ordered him to marry me or was your plan always for me to find out in front of everyone and look a fool?” Ciri stormed about her father’s in a manner too close for comfort to that of her foster father when he was in a snit.

Emhyr tilted his head, “I hardly think you looked the fool.” He paused as Ciri snarled at him, but continued gamely on. “You reacted perfectly. You could not have done better had I told you what to say myself.” He watched her pace for a moment before he stood to block her path, “Cirilla, you will soon be Empress. I will not be able to hold your hand and it will do you no good for the nobles to perceive you as needing my guidance. You will make decisions. You will make mistakes. This is an inevitable outcome of rule. I cannot protect you from them. Neither can I protect you from betrayal from those closest to you. This was very minor as betrayals go, but you needed to experience it so that you can prepare yourself.” She huffed and turned away. “There is so much more for you to learn.”

Ciri whirled around at him, “Why did you even bother with dragging me back if you had an heir so perfect as Morvran already lined up!”

Emhyr’s face was like stone, “I sought you out for matters of state, of course.”

Ciri drew breath to yell, but stopped. She tilted her head, eerily like Emhyr himself, and just looked at him. Finally, she blinked and swallowed her anger, “You’re lying.”

A rock elemental could have had more expression than Emhyr.

A smile twitched at the corner of Ciri’s lips. Well, well, who knew; Geralt had been right after all. The more time she spent analyzing Emhyr, the better she got at reading him. She decided to table the argument for now. When Emhyr’s feathers were ruffled, she would get no more out of him. That at least she knew perfectly well. “Now that the sorcerers have sent the witchers out to their stations on the front, what do you wish of me? Should I return to the front, as well?”

Ciri had the great pleasure of seeing Emhyr thrown off balance by her calm manner. He glanced out the window to check the sun’s position, “I would appreciate an update from Dijkstra as to the status of Novigrad. Do you believe you have time to travel there and back before midnight?”

Ciri grinned, “Plenty of time, Father.” She hid her amusement at his further state of confusion. ‘Two could play at this game,’ she thought as she sauntered out of the room. Perhaps politics were not so bad after all. 

\---------------

Just before midnight, Ciri ducked into the emperor’s study. Emhyr stood over a detailed map spread across a new massive table. “What news?” he asked without looking up.

Ciri sighed heavily, “A dragon has taken Novigrad.”

Emhyr slowly raised his head to stare at her. “A dragon?” he asked, his tone so dry it could have been a desert.

Ciri shrugged, “We knew that dragons had been sighted, but this is the first we’ve heard of them attacking settlements. The dragon razed Novigrad to the ground and has settled on the gold and the ashes. The scouts say you can see the walls smoking from miles off.”

Emhyr was silent. Finally he drew in a deep breath, “The citizenry?”

Ciri felt her lips drawing up in a tiny smile, “Most of them made it out. Dijkstra herded the majority down into the sewers while the Hierophant was preaching to his troops. Turns out Dijkstra has been keeping the sewers cleared for months now and was using them to smuggle supplies out to catches in the wilds. The refugees got out and Dijkstra is sending them south to us.”

Emhyr picked up the supply reports and made several notes. Ciri watched him work silently for a while. “Have you heard from Cerys and Skellege?”

Emhyr snorted and a cold smile lifted his lip minutely, “Skellege fairs well. The natural hardiness of the people has proven a strong shield against the monster attacks. Of course, their nearness to your gate to the White Frost has had its own positive effect. While Avallac’h started the Conjunction there and the phenomena rippled out across the world, you also ‘finished’ the Conjunction there. The monsters will appear less and less on the isles. As the year goes on, that same lessening will also ripple forth following the original ripple of the monster appearances.” Emhyr left loose a bitter chuckle, “Strange to think that if we fail, the heirs of humanity’s history and culture may well be skirt wearing pirates who cannot last an evening without a brawl.”

Ciri frowned at him and debated if she had the energy to take him up on the fight he was starting. She slumped down into a seat and decided to let it go. “I wish I had never done it.” She confessed. “Avallac’h was so insistent that we would never have a better chance, that we would never be able to convince the rest to provide the power necessary, and that we had to take advantage of the Wild Hunt’s weakening of time and space. If I had just ignored him or if I had even listened to you when you tried to talk to me, we could have been more prepared. We could have been ready for this.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she swiped at it angrily.

A broad hand fell heavily on her shoulder. It was a strong hand; hard but steadying like leaning against a mountainside. Emhyr didn’t say all the things Yenn might have said: like ‘You didn’t know what would happen.’ Or ‘It’s not your fault.’ He just stood fast and let her get it out. When she had finished, he squeezed a bit tighter for just a moment. Ciri wondered in that moment what had happened to turn the loving father she remembered from her childhood into this man of stone who couldn’t even hug his daughter anymore. She reached up and patted his hand. Emhyr left it just a moment longer before drawing away. 

He had only taken a few steps back toward the table when the silver light of a Conjunction monster appearing separated them. Ciri cried out in alarm and the doorway suddenly boiled with soldiers. But even her reflexes weren’t fast enough to stop the beast from sinking its jaws into Emhyr’s upraised arm. Ciri’s silver sword sang and the monster’s head rolled to the ground. She darted forward to catch the emperor when he faltered; noting absently as she did the small silver blade protruding from the beast’s heart. It could only have been Emhyr’s. A proud smile was wiped from her face as Emhyr slumped in her arms. One of the guards ran for a healer but Emhyr was fading fast. 

“Poison,” Ciri mumbled, “Red skin, black feather crest, and poisoned jaws. Got to be a Zugloft. The antidote is very rare!” The midnight bells began to toll and Ciri grabbed for a pen. She half carried Emhyr over to where the portal was beginning to glow, ignoring the soldiers’ protests. She scribbled something onto Emhyr’s robe before shoving him onto the charmed rug just before the final toll.

Cool mountain air was soothing against his rapidly heating skin and Emhyr stumbled on suddenly rocky ground. He was caught by arms that felt like steel bars and he blinked up at silver hair that seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. “Beautiful,” he murmured and heard a shocked snort from nearby.

“Are you drunk?!” the voice was familiar but it still took Emhyr a moment to reach the memory through his increasingly foggy thoughts. 

“Geralt,” He managed and his voice was as clear and deep as if he was addressing the senate; a marked contrast to his thoughts as he barely managed to pull together a sentence. “Are you holding me in your arms?”

“Well, you certainly aren’t standing on your own two feet,” came the deliciously insolent reply. Geralt was pulling at his sleeve and squinting at it in the moonlight. 

“Cirilla was with me.”

“Ya, I thought this was her handwriting. A Zugloft, huh. Gotta get you back to the keep.” 

Emhyr gasped as his arm flared with a wrenching pain. He stared at it blurrily, “That is not my handkerchief.” He said with great deliberation. Emhyr felt a strange sense of weightlessness as Geralt lifted him into his arms with what seemed like as much effort as was needed to lift a child.

“No, Emhyr,” came the amused reply, “It’s my handkerchief you are currently bleeding through. Up you go.”

Emhyr swayed dangerously as he was sat gently upon the ever patient Roach. The only thing he could think as Geralt leapt up behind him was, “You carry a pocket handkerchief? How did I not know this? This goes against everything I know about you.”

A low chuckle rumbled through the warm chest he leaned into. “Go unconscious already, Your Imperial Majesty, or you’ll have me assassinated once you realize how much blackmail you are giving me.”

Emhyr felt that was excellent advice and slumped back into the utterly safe embrace of the witcher.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally found some time to write during Thanksgiving while the relative were holding the baby. Happy Thanksgiving!  
> Unbetaed  
> Spoiler alert! Heart Of Stone DLC Spoilers!

There was nothing but pain, for what seemed like an eternity. His fever raged and he burned like metal in a forge. A cool cloth wiped his brow and he shook from the cold. High voices asked curious questions and the sound scraped like nails upon slate. A low voice answered and he startled in panic. A firm broad hand held him down and he nearly screamed from the pain. Blessed blackness filled his thoughts until he felt no more.

A particularly boisterous rooster woke Emhyr from his slumber. He lay still for a moment contemplating the chamber to which he had opened his eyes. The lovingly hand carved wooden panel walls would certainly never be found in a peasant hut but the thick pile of pelts covering his bare flesh was too barbaric for any noble house. The juxtaposition puzzled him until he turned his head against the soft down pillow and caught sight of Geralt kneeling patiently on the wooden floor not three feet away. His eyes were closed and his breath low and steady. 

Emhyr’s thoughts lagged with weariness but he was not so tired that he couldn’t catalog the minute changes the master witcher had accrued in the years he had endured: a tiny crows foot just starting at the corner of one eye, slightly more flesh on his bones: likely from years of a steady diet rather than one dictated by the whims of the path, hair longer than ever he had seen the witcher wear but pulled back into a thick white braid. A neatly trimmed beard. A peaceful expression.

Emhyr slipped back into restful slumber without realizing it. The room was warm from the sun when the sound of voices pulled him from his slumber.

“Annabeth,” Geralt rumbled, “Take his pulse. Ralph, observe his breathing and tell me what is wrong with it. Lear, does he still have a fever? Marlow, remove his bandages, then Obie, you clean his wound.”

Emhyr kept his eyes firmly shut as small hands began to examine him. One by one, quiet voices gave their reports and finished their tasks. The witcher’s rumbling baritone acknowledged or gently corrected each child. Emhyr lay silent, just listening.

“No, Ralph, what you should have noticed is that his breath is too fast. He is awake. Good morning, Your Majesty.”

Emhyr opened his eyes. Five pairs of eyes stared back in surprise and one set of eyes stared with warm amusement. The children were clothed uniformly in tunics embroidered with little wolf heads, longer than Nilfgardian fashion. The tunics draped down to their knees and were belted into their waists with short lengths of rope. They wore no trousers, not uncommon in the warm spring time, but they each wore inexpertly made moccasins. Their new, if rather rough, clothing contrasted greatly with Geralt’s worn shirt and trousers. Emhyr berated himself for not thinking about supplying Geralt with more necessities while he tried to lever himself up.

“No, sir!” One of the students, Lear, pushed gently against his chest. “Sir, you need to rest. Our squad is at your…” Lear bit his lip and looked up at Geralt. 

The witcher hummed and suggested, “Disposal?” 

Lear brightened, “Thank you, Master Geralt!” He turned back to Emhyr, “Our squad is at your disposal until after the noon meal, your Majesty. What can we do for you?”

Emhyr blinked at the five hopeful faces staring up at him and turned to look at Geralt. The witcher was clearly amused.

“They are excited because each of the squads has been betting on who would be assigned to you when you finally woke. The rest of the Griffin platoon will be thrilled.” Geralt’s grin lifted on one side until it was rakishly crooked, “Well, Your Majesty?”

Emhyr ruthlessly dragged his thoughts away from the witcher’s charming smile and quietly asked the children for water. They scampered away out of the room. Emhyr took advantage of their absence to push himself up again. Geralt snorted, helped him to sit up, and even fluffed a few pillows to tuck behind his back. Emhyr shot him a cold look. “Enough with your coddling. I am no wilting maiden in need of it.”

That infuriatingly attractive grin grew wider and a new scar across his upper lip whitened, “No, that was a few nights ago.”

Emhyr stared at him in outrage as Geralt calmly ignored his ire and went about tending to the emperor’s needs. “Where are my clothes?” he eventually demanded.

“Well,” Emhyr felt his eyebrow twitch at the hesitant tone. “One of the lads got a little bit enthusiastic when I asked him to clean the ink off your sleeve, but don’t worry. I’ve got some of Vesemir’s old clothes for you.” He went and fetched a bare tunic and trousers with a leather jerkin to belt on top. He lay them beside the bed as the squad walked in. One child held the door while another carefully carried a pitcher of water. A third carried a wooden cup and a stack of small towels. The last two hauled a cauldron of hot water together. The children set their finds down carefully and watched proudly as Ralph offered a cup of clear fresh spring water for the Emperor.

Emhyr took it gravely and, after a moment of hesitation, took an almost ritualistic sip of water. The children all smiled. Emhyr nodded gravely and dismissed them. Annabeth bobbed a curtsey and the rest ran back in to follow her example with little bobbing bows. After the last child closed the door behind him, Emhyr eyed the witcher coldly as Geralt laughed silently. Emhyr suffered through Geralt giving him a sponge bath and helping him into his clothes. Emhyr noted that they were long enough but the difference in the shoulders and arms was just ridiculous. Emhyr slowly walked to the wardrobe and searched the drawers until he found a couple of spare ties. He twitched as Geralt took them from his hand and carefully tied up the sleeves to his bicep.

“Master Geralt?”

A child poked his head into the room. Geralt turned to him with an easy smile, “Liam, what is it?”

“The Cat and Viper platoons are done with their strength training and the Griffin, Manticore, and Bear platoons have finished the flexibility course. Manticore got through the fastest!”

Geralt nodded, “Tell Griffin and Bear to run to the lake and back twice and Manticore can get started on lunch. Send the Cat and Viper squads over the obstacle course. I’ll be down to observe after a time so warn them not to slack off.”

The child bobbed a little bow and took off down the stairs at a run. Geralt turned back with a smile that withered when he looked back at Emhyr. “Well, come on,” the witcher said gruffly, “Let’s see if you can get down the stairs.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, “Is this not the Wolf school?”

Geralt bared his teeth in a snarl and Emhyr flinched at the abrupt shift of emotion. “What are you trying to imply?” Geralt growled out.

Emhyr sat still under a vicious gaze. He clenched his teeth and drew in a slow breath. “I am not trying to criticize. I am simply curious why you are using the other schools’ names.”

Emhyr’s calm voice seemed to sooth Geralt’s savage mood. The witcher walked out to the balcony and stood looking out over the valley. Emhyr could see him breathing in slow measures and his fingers tapping rhythmically along with the breaths. When Geralt returned, he was slightly shame-faced but he didn’t explain the vicious mood shift. “It is not usual for there to be so many students here at one time. Last cycle, I came up with a plan. I split the children up into five platoons to make training easier. I used the five other school names to give them a taste of being part of a school. They know that they only truly become Wolves after the Trials.”

They sat in silence after the mention of the sword hanging over their heads. Geralt huffed and stood. “Let’s start getting you down the stairs. By the time you get down, it will be time for dinner.”

The poison had apparently done its work well if not fatally. Emhyr was left to pant and sit in exhaustion at each landing while Geralt continued down the stairs, apparently to manage some portion of the school. He would return almost by magic just as Emhyr felt ready to continue the trek down. After the third time he returned just on time, Emhyr felt justified in asking how he was managing that. “I don’t go out of earshot and I just listen to your heartbeat.” 

Emhyr was stunned by the ease at which Geralt revealed witcher secrets like that. True enough that he probably knew more than any non-witcher alive today but Geralt had always been elite among his fellows. To reveal his strength like that to Emhyr seemed incredibly risky. Also incredibly out of character for Geralt. Emhyr’s chest tightened at this evidence of Geralt’s recent trauma. He didn’t say anything though. He simply nodded and grasped the man’s arm to steady himself on the way down. 

The great hall of Kaer Morhen was overflowing with children chattering away as they walked in. At their entrance, the children stood beside their benches and bowed their heads towards their teacher. Geralt nodded back and suddenly the room was full of movement as the children streamed to line up before a long table. One child stood there holding a large horn, which glowed with magic sigils, while another pulled food from inside it to place on the plates the children held out eagerly. Another set of children carried trays of cutlery to each of the long tables. Another still bore pitchers. Geralt led Emhyr to a smaller table set furthest away from the great hearth and sat him down in a comfortable chair. Emhyr watched with great bemusement as Geralt waited patiently in the line behind his students. The emperor was sipping calmly on a clear glass of water when Geralt returned carrying two plates full of steaming food. The two adults ate in what was oddly comfortable silence. Geralt’s face twitched with different emotions throughout the whole meal which fascinated Emhyr, who had deduced that the witcher was overhearing his charges’ conversations.

After something made Geralt chuckle, Emhyr could not hold back his curiosity. “Does the vast quantity of noise not drown out the individual words?”

Geralt shook his head, “When you first get the mutations, sure. But we are trained to use our enhanced senses with extreme precision. After all, a forest is quite noisy all by itself. Trying to hear a werewolf creeping up on you would be impossible if we didn’t have control. If our hearing was simply increased as the cat potion increases our sensitivity to light, we’d go mad from the constant noise. We’d never be able to function on a battlefield, which can be deafening even to normal ears.” Emhyr twisted a hand in acknowledgement of his point and went back to silently watching the happy children eat. He had seen these children when they went through to portal two days ago. They had been gaunt, weary, many wounded, and completely terrified. Now they ate, laughed, and chattered like sparrows; each more gay than the next.

Emhyr caught Geralt’s eye, “Do they know?” 

Geralt sobered, “Yes. They know. They even know it will be soon.”

Emhyr stiffened and Geralt frowned at him. Emhyr faltered, “I hadn’t realized that the trials began in the second year of witcher training.” The Master Witcher opened his mouth but closed his teeth on the words. They finished the meal in silence. A child came by to collect their plates. One child brought clay goblets and a bottle to Geralt. Another brought the horn. Geralt looked over the all the students standing beside their clean tables and gave one nod of approval. The children began to stream out of the Great Hall; laughing and shoving with the happy attitude of children released to play. Geralt offered Emhyr his arm and the two men slowly followed the children. They sat drinking a rather terrible wine while the children gamboled about in play.

Emhyr eyed the magical horn. “So this is your food solution. Truly, I would never have guessed. Wherever did you gain a Cornucopia? I have never heard of a true Cornucopia being created. An everfull bottle of wine perhaps but…” He trailed off as Geralt began rubbing at the side of his face as if an old scar pained him. Geralt began speaking lowly; clearly attempting to keep the children from hearing. He told a dreadful story of his encounters with Olgierd von Everec and his personal demon, Gaunter O'Dimm. Geralt was clearly conflicted by his final choice.

‘Maybe I should have tried to save him. He was a human being tormented by a monster. But…” Geralt looked up at the moon rising in the summer sky, “The things Olgierd did with the power that demon gave him, I couldn’t forgive him.” He gritted his teeth. “I let the demon take his due.” Geralt shook his head, “I didn’t want to be rewarded for that choice, but O’Dimm wouldn’t release me from his binding until I took payment.” He gestured at the Cornucopia. “It used to only provide one meal a day, but when I came here outside of time … well I can only guess I took the horn outside of O’Dimm’s control of time. When I tried it here, I could take as many meals as I pleased from it. They are nothing delicious, but they are healthy and filling.” Geralt snorted, “Three full meals a day is more than most of these children have had in their whole lives.” 

The two men looked back out at the happy children laughing under the summer moon and the setting sun. 

Emhyr quickly fell into the routine of Kaer Morhen. In the morning, Geralt helped him down to the training yard where he sat in the sun or exercised lightly while Geralt put the children through a brutal training regimen. They all ate well at lunch then dragged their weary bodies into the great hall for classes. Sometime Emhyr sat in, other times he read from the witcher library or consolidated the reports about the new breeds of monsters. After the children’s brains where thoroughly fed there was afternoon training until dinner. The calm routine was something Emhyr had little experience in. His body healed and he swiftly ran out of books to read. So as the month passed, he began to take a greater interest and participation in the Witcher training.

It was a cool summer day when Geralt led the squads one at a time down into the basement. Emhyr oversaw the rest training outside but was puzzled when the squads came back out shaken and white faced. Curious, he followed the last squad down. Geralt was waiting for them beside a strange pair of brass gates at the far back of the keep basement. Geralt’s eyes flickered to his, but he didn’t comment. “Welcome Cat squad. As you all know, we will be holding the Trial of the Grasses very soon.” Emhyr blinked slowly, unwilling to reveal his shock to the children. “I have spoken to all of you about the risks. I know you are afraid.”

Geralt laid a hand on the brass gate. “They say that witchers don’t feel fear, but that is not true. Each of us were once as you are. We all felt fear.” He turned his gaze down to the huddled children, “Your fear is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The silent children shuffled a little or hid their faces, but some looked even harder into Geralt’s eyes. “Fear is a survival instinct. We cannot live without fear to warn us of a situation’s danger. In time, I will train you to respond to fear with aggression rather than flight, but you must understand your fear first. When you become a witcher, your emotions will still be there but, more, distant, is the best term. This is not done to make you uncaring. It is to help you face things no man or woman should ever have to face and face them without flinching. However this distance is nothing more than a tool. The mutations must not be used as a crutch. If you do not learn to face your fear before it becomes more distant, then you may never learn to face it. Then when you face true terror down the Path, it might very well get you killed.”

“You must find your real courage for yourself.” He looked out and locked eyes with one of the children, “Sarah, what is courage?”

The girl stuttered as she answered, “It’s not being afraid.”

Geralt tilted his head, “Then would you say a boy who ran out into a meadow during a thunderstorm when other boys said he was too scared to was acting with courage?”

Sarah shook her head, “Naw, I saw one of our cows get struck by lightning like that! That’s just being stupid!”

Another boy jerked his head, “No! He was brave! He wasn’t scared of the lightning!”

Geralt asked him quietly, “Josso, was he afraid his friend’s laughter more than the lightning?”

The boy blinked and looked around to the others who also looked as if they had never thought of that before. Geralt straightened, “True courage is not being unafraid. It is facing what you fear and continuing on despite it. A knight who tries to slay a dragon because he is afraid of what people would say if he didn’t is not truly courageous. A peasant woman who faces that same dragon to give her children time to run away is acting with courage.” Geralt shrugged a little, “They will probably both end up dead but that’s not the point I am trying to make. As a witcher, you will face terrifying situations. You will have to carry one with a clear head and not become incapacitated by your fear. Luckily one can develop courage much as we have developed your muscles.”

Geralt opened the nearest gate and the children all shivered as it creaked open. “Beyond this gate is a corridor which has been cursed to show you your fears.” The children’s eyes snapped to the dark hole with trepidation. “You must enter it and reach the other end once. I will not lie to you. This will be difficult, but you will not face your greatest fear right away. You are allowed to pass through the corridor as many as three times. Each time, your fear will be greater and during the third time you will face your greatest fear.”

The children’s eyes were wide in the flickering torchlight, but Geralt gestured mercilessly toward the open gate. “Face your fear and keep walking.”

For a moment, it seemed as if none of them would move. Then Sarah, the little stuttering child, gulped and stepped forward. She passed Geralt and walked away into the all-consuming darkness. A few children were just starting towards the gate when they all heard Sarah begin to scream. The children flinched back as Sarah’s scream suddenly cut off. A few at the back began to whimper quietly. It was only a moment later when Sarah arrived at the closed gate. She pushed through it and the light glimmered off her tears. The gate swung shut behind her with a dull thud. The children tried to crowd her with questions but Geralt kept them back and motioned them into the passage. One by one, they entered and exited. A few went through a second time. Not a single one went through thrice. Once all the children had gone through at least once, Geralt sent them up to recover in the sunshine.

Emhyr met his eyes and Geralt looked away. Emhyr frowned at him, “You cannot go easy on them, witcher. Everything you said was very true.”

Geralt shuddered, “I know, but I don’t like it.”

Emhyr tilted his head to one side, “I doubt any man of character enjoys scaring children.”

“Or murdering them.” Geralt shook himself like a wet dog and turned to lock the gate.

“Wait,”

Geralt turned and saw Emhyr staring into the dark passage. “You want a go?”

Emhyr was hesitating and he saw Geralt deduce his reasons. It stung to think the witcher was beginning to be able to read him. Nevertheless, the witcher pressed the key into his hand and left him with his desired privacy. Emhyr watched him go. Then he turned empty eyes to the gate. 

Emhyr strode firmly into the ominous darkness.

The darkness clutched at his sleeve, slowing his stride. It choked his throat, stopping his breath. It was nigh unbearable. Then suddenly it was gone. Warm lantern light spread before him and Emhyr blinked in shock to see a ballroom floor. Not any ballroom floor. His ballroom floor. It stretched out endlessly and he knew instinctively that a skeleton of one of his defeated foes lay beneath every tile of the ballroom. His courtiers danced, laughed, and drank upon death. Death beyond counting. The dancers parted and there she was:

Pavetta, his beloved wife.

She was as he had always dreamed she would look. No longer dressed in the lesser fashions of the Queen of Cintra, Pavetta was attired in a royal gown of Nilfgardian black. The Crown Jewels hung about her neck and glittered on her wrists and hands. The Queen’s crown was made even more wonderful simply by being worn by her beautiful head. Emhyr hurried forward; his hand reaching out eagerly to grasp her. His fingers brushed hers.

She drew back as if a snake had bit her. Emhyr froze. No. No, this wasn’t right. Everything was as he had always dreamed. Why?

Emhyr dragged his eyes up to meet hers. Cold hatred stared back at him. Emhyr felt the ice of her stare freeze his blood as his beloved smiled an empty smile and folded her hands. “Why, my lord. How bold.” Her words were cutting and void of any emotion. The perfect courtier: cold, empty, meaningless. He could see all her fire had been smothered, all her passion burnt away after years of hating him. In her eyes, he could see only one fire. The fire he kindled which had burnt away her country, her people, and their family. Cold ashes smoldered at the twisted corner of her perfect lips. Her hair was veiled in choking smoke. The fire he lit had burnt her soul away and left only this husk to reign as his Queen.

Emhyr flinched and turned away from the horrible scene. Pavetta shot out a jeweled hand to grab him. Her painted nails dug into his flesh like knives. “LOOK AT ME!”

Emhyr shuddered and turned back to look. A fish flopped out of one empty socket while water bloated flesh hung from her skull. Emhyr cried out as the half devoured face of his drowned love was thrust close to his. The stench of decay attacked his lungs as she hissed out, “I hate you, Duny. You destroyed my country. You destroyed our family and all for the sake of ambition. If I had lived, I would have hated you until I grew simply indifferent to you.”

Emhyr wept like a child. Every cruel thought his subconscious had ever dreamt up about his old love pressed upon him and cut him open like butcher knives. He looked again and Pavetta’s face was no less horrific, but he took her into his arms. He held fast as slime and gore began seeping out onto him. “I am… so sorry.” He sobbed his confession. “I never wanted you to die and I did not think of what would be best for our family. I regret that.” He drew in a shuttering breath and looked her right in the face. “But I am not sorry for my choice. It may have been wrong for us, but I truly believe it was the right for the world.” Pavatta snarled at him. He laid a gentle hand on her face, “I wish you had not paid for my mistakes. I wish you had lived to see our daughter grown.” Pavetta pulled away and he stepped forward after her gruesome form; desperate to face his mistake and somehow make it right.

His hand closed around solid iron. The exit gate. Emhyr drew in a breath of stale and slightly moist basement air. He slowly pushed the gate open. The wavering torchlight seemed almost like the sun it felt so bright after the oppressive darkness inside the tunnel. He stood shivering in the small globe of light for a while before he locked the entrance and slowly made his way up and out. He took the torch with him. Geralt was sitting on a newly repaired wall in view of the exit, watching the children run about during their free evening hours. Emhyr couldn’t think of anything he’d like less than to face Geralt after this experience, but the man was obviously waiting for him.

Geralt turned casually at his approach, but there was nothing casual about his gaze. Emhyr ruthlessly suppressed a shiver as the assessing gaze slid over him. He felt raw and exposed like a torn nerve. He readied himself for a snide remark about the tearstains on his face or the drivel on his collar, but Geralt simply nodded and looked back at the children. “Vesemir once told me that fear only grows as we age. Our experiences create more potent fears for us so that even a small fear can be debilitating. He never went back into that corridor after he turned a hundred. Said he had nightmares enough without magic calling them up for him.”

Emhyr contemplated this odd tidbit of information. “Witcher, are you trying to comfort me? You, who have probably walked that corridor thrice?”

Geralt shrugged, “I did walk it three times, but I did it as a kid.” He shook his head tiredly, “I’m not concerned over what you fear, Emhyr. Just thought you might be curious why the kids only took a few minutes to get through the corridor and you’ve been in there two hours.” Emhyr looked at the sky in shock. Geralt simply walked away into the darkening evening.

That night, Emhyr could not sleep. He tossed and turned on the comfortable bed in his chambers. However, nothing could drive the image of Pavetta’s rotten flesh from his mind long enough for him to relax. The bright moon was high in the sky by the time he gave up. Emhyr slipped on the fur lined moccasins one of the recruits had sewn him and slowly picked his way down the dark staircase. Geralt had freely offered him the poor contents of his cellar. The alcohol might be terrible but it was certainly strong enough to get him drunk. He picked out a bottle and slipped into the Great Hall; intending to sit by the fire which always burned there.

Unfortunately, he was not the first one to have that idea. Geralt was already there on a long bench before the hearth. Emhyr took a step back, intending to leave Geralt to his solitude, before a bark of laughter drew him up short. Geralt turned and very obviously said something to the empty air beside him. The hairs on the backs of Emhyr’s neck and arms stood straight up. He drew closer. Geralt was still talking to no one; quite obviously exchanging humorous stories with a hallucination. When Emhyr heard Geralt refer to the empty air as Vesemir, he knew he had to do something.

Emhyr tapped gently on Geralt’s shoulder. 

The witcher turned, mid chortle, and grinned up at Emhyr. “What Emhyr? You getting jealous I’m spending time with the old man? Don’t worry. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

Emhyr paused. The familiarity threw him. It had been so long since someone spoke to him so freely. Geralt certainly didn’t usually. Emhyr bit his lip thoughtfully. This must be how Geralt had spoken to his hallucinations of Emhyr. “Geralt,” he asked quietly, “To whom are you speaking?”

Geralt tilted his head like a curious cat. His eyebrows lifted questioningly then suddenly dropped as Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. He began that strange ritual of breathing and counting on his fingers again. When he was done, Geralt lifted his head, turned, and very deliberately looked for Vesemir. It was obvious immediately that the hallucination had fled his mind’s eye. Geralt slumped and buried his face in his hands.

“Geralt,” Emhyr whispered. The haunted man seemed so far away in the darkness of the hall. A stifled sob scratched its way past Geralt’s muffling hands. The void between them grew larger with every hidden sob. After what seemed an eternity, Geralt abruptly stood and fled the hall. Emhyr didn’t move a step. His mind flew; unwillingly examining each of Geralt’s actions for further signs of madness. His mind calculated the relative benefits of leaving Geralt in charge of the training of these children versus the costs of more drastic signs of madness. By now Emhyr was very familiar with the few signs Geralt had displayed. That ritual Geralt seemed to repeat every so often highlighted the times some altered portion of Geralt’s mind or personality made an appearance. However, it was very concerning that Geralt himself was still unaware of portions of his own madness.

“Damn those witches.” Damn Phillipa Eilhart, surely, but damn Merigold and Yennifer as well. Emhyr had given them a whole year, the preceding year here, with Geralt to heal the man. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Who knows how the witches’ passion and emotions had made a mess of such a sensitive wound. If he had thought Geralt would have talked to them, Emhyr would have sent one of his own healers. Emhyr narrowed his eyes and, after one more moment of thought, he strode up the main staircase after the fleeing witcher.

Emhyr had no chance of keeping up with a witcher running up stairs, but it was obvious to the emperor that Geralt would run to his den. Sure enough, Emhyr could hear the man’s sobs through the door. Geralt swallowed his last hitching gasp as Emhyr came into the room. Geralt, the only man never afraid of standing up to him, now kept his face averted from Emhyr’s. Emhyr bared his teeth.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Geralt didn’t turn. Emhyr hissed out his irritation.

“What you suffered would have destroyed lesser men. That you are at all functional is a testament to your strength of will. That you can teach; connect so emotionally with your students that they so obviously care for you is nothing short of miraculous.” Emhyr glared at the fire roaring in the hearth, too much even for the cool night. He shoved off his heavy fur mantle and left it on the floor behind him as he strode over in front of Geralt to glare at the man. “Don’t you dare hide away from me. Perhaps you cannot show weakness before your students. You will show it to me and you shall not be ashamed.”

Geralt stared hard into Emhyr’s eyes; a terrible longing sparking in his gaze. Then those eyes shuttered. Geralt began quietly counting.

Emhyr hissed and grabbed Geralt’s face between his hands, “I am not a hallucination! You dare try to dismiss me!”

Blazing eyes opened wide and Emhyr felt his whole body ignite. Geralt snatched Emhyr’s hands away from his face and used that grip to drag Emhyr into him. Geralt’s lips attacked Emhyr’s hungrily. Emhyr shook Geralt’s hands off of his and plunged them into the silvery mane which he had always admired so, even when it was filthy and unkempt. It was clean now and as coarse as summer grass. Emhyr groaned and pulled Geralt closer. He smelled of plain tallow soap and weapon oil. Bizarely this common smell made Emhyr’s loins tighten.

Geralt struggled weakly and Emhyr let him go. The witcher huddled in on himself, “How can you not be a hallucination?” he gasped. “Giving me comfort! Telling me what I want to hear: that I’m not crazy?! That I’m not dreaming all of this?” He swung his hand out and Emhyr realized he meant everything: Yennifer and Triss visiting last year, his students, and Emhyr himself. He rounded on Emhyr, “How can I know what’s real and what isn’t when fiction seems more real than reality?! How can I know what’s real when your kiss is as passionate as I always dreamed!” He began pulling at his hair, “Maybe I’m still huddled in that cave: filthy, starved, and as mad as Kiyan. Mad as Kiyan. Mad as Kiyan.”

Emhyr broke his repetitions with another kiss. “Stop it.” He ordered firmly, against Geralt’s lips. “Stop doubting. You are real. I am real.” He kissed him again. “You will believe me,” he commanded, then bore Geralt down upon the bed. Emhyr silenced Geralt’s paranoid whispers with kisses. He soothed the witcher’s shivers with long strokes down his hardened body; reveling in the scared hide finally laid bare for his hands. He drove Geralt away from fearful worries with passionate demands which the proud witcher predictably rose to meet. So when the emperor finally sank into the witcher’s warm passage, Geralt was fully returned to the moment.

Emhyr rode the bucking and writhing body beneath him masterfully. Every gasped plea or swearing demand, Emhyr filled until the master witcher lay satiated beneath him. Only then did Emhyr take his own pleasure with Geralt’s golden eyes languidly watching him. Emhyr rutted deeply into the witcher; releasing every desire he had hidden, even from himself. Geralt, covered in his own seed and sprawled upon exotic furs like some ancient pagan god of lust, greedily accepted Emhyr’s passion and urged him on to even greater heights with gravelly whispers in his ear and powerful thighs pulling Emhyr ever deeper. 

The moment Emhyr released deep inside him, Geralt groaned with obvious pleasure at the act. Only his age kept Emhyr from rising again at that wanton sound; desiring nothing more at that moment then to plough Geralt again and again until the man over flowed with his seed and he lay fecund in Emhyr’s grasp. Emhyr shuddered as his cock spurted one last time at that image. Large hands, calloused from weapons, tugged him down. Emhyr rested against Geralt’ strong chest and the man rubbed fondly at Emhyr’s broad shoulders.

"You are so tense even now," Geralt murmured. "You are carrying the weight of the world right here." He pressed something in Emhyr’s shoulder which throbbed with agony only to suddenly release something deep in Emhyr’s neck. He sighed in relief and sagged deeper onto Geralt’s chest which rumbled with a fond chuckle. Emhyr allowed himself to relax. Geralt's deep breaths lifted Emhyr’s sprawled form up and down steadily. His mind wandered briefly in reflections of this relaxed display of Geralt’s physical strength, but such mild contemplations were common enough for his mind at rest. Emhyr drifted off in the midst of force equations and weight calculations with Geralt’s arms warm around his back.


	6. Chapter 6

Oddly enough, sleeping together did not solve all their problems. In the daylight, they are awkward with each other: both men too aware that they have witnessed the other’s hurts far too closely for comfort. They don’t avoid each other exactly, but their earlier easiness is gone to such a point that little Marissa asked Master Emreis, as they call him, if he is fighting with Master Geralt. He assured her they were not. Their mealtime silences only grew deeper.

At night, they are far from silent. Geralt would growl out his passion into Emhyr’s strong neck while Emhyr hissed curses into the dark when he sank into Geralt’s warm body. They both broke the silence with nightmare cries and hushing whispers. 

Predictably, it all came to a head in the worst possible way. Geralt had asked Emhyr to take the whole hundred trainees down to the Bastion to conduct a set of war games; half of them to hold the crumbling fort against the other half besieging it. If there was anyone qualified to teach witchers tactics, it was Emhyr. 

“Send the ones who die in the war games back to the fortress at dawn every two days.” Geralt requested as he handed over the Cornucopia. Emhyr frowned at him but Geralt just eyed him back coolly rather than provide further information. Emhyr faithfully sent the seven children “killed” by their fellows back to the fortress at dawn on their third day of the war games.

Emhyr had expected for the children to receive some kind of specialized training and then be sent back to the main group. However no children returned from the keep and Emhyr kept sending more and more back every two days. The trainees clearly didn’t think anything was wrong, but Emhyr felt a chill despite the warm summer weather. On the last day of the game, Emhyr had the final eleven “survivors” of the Bastion siege pack up their gear and march back to the fortress.

The keep was eerily silent as they walked through the portcullis. The well-known shouts and cries of happy children were absent and their lone footsteps seemed to echo off the crumbling stone steps. The great hall was dark and empty except for Geralt who stood at the back watching the fire in the massive hearth.

Geralt turned to face them all and looked over the silent children. His face seemed older than Emhyr had ever seen him look. Suddenly, before Geralt even spoke, Emhyr knew what had happened. The Emperor closed his eyed and berated himself silently for being so willfully blind. Geralt’s low voice cut through the silence.

“Today you undergo the trial of Grasses.”

Emhyr stood about superfluously as Geralt instructed the children to bath thoroughly and don pale smocks. He followed as the Master Witcher herded the children down into the basement to a room filled with iron contraptions and smelling strongly of lye and potions. He had them kneel on mats in a small antechamber off of the main lab. He picked up a small bag and had the children draw lots. The children looked at their numbers in trepidation. 

“Try to stay calm,” he advised them. “There will be screaming. Try to meditate and let the fear pass through you. You won’t be afraid for long now.” He nodded at them, almost a salute to Emhyr’s eyes. “One two and three, follow me.”

Geralt only seemed to notice that Emhyr was still there after he had gotten the three children up onto the tables and strapped down. He looked up from the potions and seemed surprised to see Emhyr. “Out,” he ordered calmly.

Emhyr shook his head. “I need to see this.” He answered simply. He had ordered this done after all.

Geralt turned back to the potions, carefully simmering. “This is not about what you need. They are going to be in agony. This is not a spectator event.” He didn’t stop talking at Emhyr’s hiss, “This is witcher business. Leave.” 

Emhyr drew up, fully ready to go on arguing, but Geralt’s golden eyes caught him. “You have no place here. Go away.”

Emhyr felt cold all of a sudden. He looked at the scared boys on the tables and their Master preparing to cut into them and change them forever. They would never grow into old men as Emhyr had. They would die on these tables or they would become Witchers. Geralt was right. He had no place here.

Emhyr left.

The screams began very soon after.

It didn’t matter where you walked in the fortress. The screams carried everywhere. Emhyr knew. He must have walked over every inch of the fortress, explored every crumbling room, the library turned classroom, the workshop. He even climbed the towers to bedrooms. Four towers, five rooms each. Emhyr knew his tower had once housed Geralt, Vesemir, Eskal, Lambert, and a guest room. The other tower rooms had always remained empty. They were empty no longer. Children lay convalescing two to a room. Each looked tiny in a bed made for an adult witcher. Children Emhyr had led in mock battle only a few days ago now lay looking more dead than alive. Few were conscious enough to even flinch as each new scream pierced the air.

Emhyr was pacing their bedroom when the screams finally stopped. He soon heard footsteps echoing up the staircase. Geralt kicked the door open and strode in carrying a boy. The clean white smock was now filthy with vomit, blood, and piss. Geralt strode right to their bed and deposited the filthy boy under their thick furs. He tossed another log on the fire making the room almost unbearably hot and then left as abruptly as he entered.

Emhyr stared after him. Then he went to the boy in their bed. It was Alvan, the little boy from Westcopp. He shivered uncontrollably. His lips were blue despite the heat of the chamber. Emhyr hesitated only shortly before he shucked his tunic and slid under the furs. He pulled the ice cold boy to his chest. Alvan gasped like he had touched a hot iron but burrowed closer. He opened foggy eyes and murmured dazedly.

They both flinched massively as the screams began again.

The candles had burned low and Emhyr had left the sweltering heat of the bed to put more logs on the fire twice before Geralt returned with another child. A little girl, Mari, one of the best tacticians in the group. Emhyr admitted he was well pleased to see her alive. Geralt shoved her into the bed between Alvan and Emhyr without so much as a nod to propriety and headed back.

The screams finally stopped by sunset. Emhyr’s nerves were wound tighter than a viol string by that point. The children had dropped in and out of consciousness, leaving Emhyr alone with the screaming most of the day. He could only reach Geralt’s bedside table from his position as bedwarmer and there had been precious little to take his mind off of the screaming there. In fact to read, he had only found a rather erotic novel and his very first letter to Geralt there.

Emhyr had examined letter carefully but could find no reason within its mildly cold sentences for Geralt to have kept it close by all these years. Even Cirilla’s message, “He was hiding this. Time to stop hiding.” Offered little in the way of explanation.

Geralt’s footsteps echoed up the stairs once more; slower and more ponderous than ever before. The reason became apparent quickly as he pushed slowly through the doors carrying two boys at once. They were both shaking and Emhyr hurriedly made room on the big bed. It was a tight squeeze with two adult men and three preadolescents. Mari ended up tucked under Emhyr’s arm and Alvan, still non responsive, was curled up on Geralt’s chest. The two newest boys were sandwiched in between Emhyr and Geralt’s warm bodies.

Emhyr met Geralt’s wounded eyes over the children’s heads. There were no words. Four out of eleven of the last batch of children had lived. It was better than Emhyr could have expected based on pure numbers. It was worse than he ever could have imagined. The children were all asleep when Geralt’s gravelly voice broke the silence.

“They’ll warm up by dawn. We will move them to their private rooms then.”

“It is fine.” Emhyr breathed out a long low breath. “This is fine.” He repeated.

They didn’t sleep. Emhyr knew he couldn’t. Numbers, names, and faces of the dead trainees were on a permanent cycle through his mind’s eye. What Geralt was thinking, Emhyr knew not. However, they must have fallen asleep eventually. It was only logical because Emhyr awoke with a knife at his jugular.

Lear, a lanky twelve year old, knelt beside him and stared up at him with golden cat eyes. His hand was steady with the tiny scalpel he held pressed at the deadly point. “This is all your fault, Master Em… no… Emperor.” He hissed under his breath, clearly trying to keep Geralt from awakening. “Sarah, Ralph, Theresa, they’re all dead. All died screaming for you scoopin’ us out of the muck to be your sacrifices!” Those newly made golden eyes glowed with hatred.

Emhyr lay still. His silence didn’t scare the boy to further action like it would have only hours earlier. Now the boy waited as patient as any predator for his prey to make a mistake. Emhyr drew in a deep breath and felt the sharp edge of his death at his throat.

“Life is boring.” Lear blinked but Emhyr continued, “Life is hard. Life is often full of grueling work with little payoff, if any.” Emhyr breathed again carefully, “Life is also made up of moments in time.”

“Moments when you have to make a choice. No one can make it for you. Often you do not have all the information. You still have to make a choice anyway. Those moments in time are what change you forever and, sometimes, they can even change the world. For good, for ill, or for something in-between, but irrevocably you are changed.”

Emhyr’s hands drifted up and gently steadied the boy who had begun to wobble from his awkward kneeling position. He made no move to defend himself.

“This is a moment in time. Make your choice.”

Lear’s eyes widened. The witcher boy barely breathed. One second, two, three. Then Lear reared back and threw the scalpel away. Emhyr opened his arms and the boy fell against him, sobbing quietly. Emhyr felt eyes on him and looked up to see Geralt’s eyes open and watching. The witcher didn’t do a single thing. He just watched Lear cry himself to sleep.

Emhyr woke again at a cock crowing outside. The bed shifted and Emhyr cracked open his eyes to see Geralt beckoning the children out of the bed and then out of the room. When they were gone, Emhyr sat up and began preparing for the day. He was fully dressed by the time Geralt returned alone.

The witcher snorted at him, “Feeling a little vulnerable there, Your Majesty.” Emhyr looked down and realized he had dressed in full tunic, shirt, and surcoat; far more formally than he had for the past few months. He huffed a small, “Perhaps,” as he acknowledged the witcher’s point. He followed Geralt to the balcony where they stood gazing out over the beautiful valley together.

“I find myself in the singular position of not knowing what is going to happen next.”

Geralt snorted rudely, “It’ll be another week to see how they take to the mutations. We will hold the funerals at the end of it. We might lose a few more before then.” He added bleakly. “After the funerals, the real work begins. We will start training them for real, not just to get them healthy enough to survive the Grasses. Their bodies will continue changing, each differently according to how the mutations take. They’ll each need specialized training regimes as well as the standard witcher forms. By the end of the year, they won’t be much like witchers but I’ll have a good enough sense of what to do with each of them that I’ll have the spare time to keep an eye on your wounded again.”

Emhyr nodded, “No doubt, Cirilla will have seen to organizing them in my absence. In another day/years’ time, I will also see what can be done about sending through stone masons, miners, and other construction workers. I had no idea your facilities were in such disrepair. We shall have to amend this. Bastion alone could be quite valuable with proper walls and roofs, to say little of the watchtowers. I wager to say you could even support a small farming community at the far reaches of the valley to provide you with amenities, luxuries, and additions to your diet.”

Geralt turned to him in astonishment, “Whoa there! I can fit in your wounded but who said anything about a village! Who would even govern those people?”

“A village ealderman, answerable to you as Lord of Kaer Morhen.”

“Emhyr!”

“Geralt.” The witcher stopped his tirade in its tracks and looked at Emhyr warily. “Geralt. If you cannot return from here, for many years as even the outside world might perceive it, then you and your students deserve more than to cram yourselves and my dependents into a crumbling ruin.”

Emhyr looked away over the valley, “I am no witcher to understand what you and your students need. I am a ruler. Let me give you what I can, in return for the sacrifices you have made for the world.”

Emhyr felt Geralt’s hand touch his own, so hesitantly for a man who had been ploughed into the bed furs by Emhyr only two weeks earlier. Emhyr looked up and caught sight of a tiny hesitant gleam of trust behind his inhuman eyes. Emhyr tightened his own fingers around Geralt’s callused ones. It was terribly intimate in a way Emhyr had never allowed himself before.

“What did you have in mind?” Geralt asked.

“Let me show you.”

It was better then. They talked easily that night, the next day, and even the next about proposed improvements to Kaer Morhen. Just as Geralt thought they had talked themselves out, Emhyr would pull out a blueprint for renovating Bastion into a medical barracks for his wounded soldiers so that the fortress was kept only for Witchers, or the schematics for a proper bridge, and they would be off again. They debated how many villagers the valley might support, training regimens for the soldiers and witchers working together, logistics of maintaining the portal in a larger fashion permanently so that soldiers, wounded, and villagers could come and go yearly.

They talked about anything and everything. By the time the funeral day came, Emhyr felt balanced again and it seemed as though Geralt felt the same. There was a serenity to the Master Witcher which spread to the thirty-two Witcher trainees as they sent their dead peers off to the fire. Each child’s ash was collected in little amateurly-made funeral urns and carried down to catacombs deep under the fortress. Geralt had carved name plates from wood for every one of the sixty-eight children and they were all respectfully laid to rest. Emhyr watched as Geralt stopped on their way back up and passed his hand carefully over an aging wooden sign that read simply, “Vesemir”. That night over their beers, Emhyr suggested a potter and a brass engraver to be added to the list of villagers and it made Geralt smile.

The months passed quickly. The witchers grew rapidly with solid food and the influence of the mutagens. The cold fall nights were a trifle when Emhyr had a standing invitation to Geralt’s bed every night. By the first snowfall, Emhyr found his things had been moved out of the guest bedroom and permanently installed inside Geralt’s. Emhyr saw the trust in Geralt’s eyes grow every morning they woke and gazed at each other across the pillows.

It worried him. Geralt was vulnerable here in a way few of Emhyr’s lovers ever had been. Emhyr had control over every outside influence in his life. It would be easy as a child’s game to manipulate Geralt once Emhyr returned to the outer world and Geralt was left here. 

Emhyr was not a soft man nor an easy one. Emhyr could hurt Geralt very badly; all while keeping him very useful. But the trust in Geralt’s eyes demanded Emhyr hold true to his promises in a way little had before. Geralt, simply by believing Emhyr was a better man, demanded Emhyr be that better man. Before now, only Pavetta had been able to influence him in such a way.

Emhyr stopped dead in shock. “Oh no.” he whispered. “I cannot have.” Emhyr sat immediately on a crumbling wall in the courtyard. The snow began soaking his robe but he did not care as his mind ruthlessly ran the numbers. From his reading in the witcher library, it was now very clear to him that witchers kept ageing. Slowly yes, and with very little to show for it physically, but they did age.

Geralt was now aging at a rate of one year to one day of true time. Within a single years’ time from the start of this mess, he would have aged three hundred and sixty-five years; more than three times his age when he battled the Wild Hunt. Vesemir had been at least two hundred and fifty at the time of his death, probably older but not even Vesemir had known for sure. In a mere two years’ time, Geralt would be over eight hundred and sixty-five years old.

It was very improbable, given the rates of aging, that Geralt would live longer than three years of true time. Emhyr was old, but he was hardly in his grave. In all likelihood, Emhyr would be retired and holding his first grandchild by the time Geralt was dying of old age.

“I cannot have chosen him,” he repeated to himself, as if he could make his heart listen.

“Master Emreis?” 

Lear, tall and strong, stood over him looking down with a curious expression, “Are you alright?”

Emhyr set his jaw and rose. “I am well. Thank you, Lear.” 

Lear gave him a dubious look but loped off through the snow like a hunting dog. Emhyr went inside but the roaring fire did little to ease the chill that had taken up residence in his gut. He skipped dinner and waited for Geralt in the bedchamber. He pulled out the well-worn letter again, reading his cold words over and over. When Geralt came in, he rounded on him like a striking snake.

“Why have you kept this? I hardly had a kind word for you. I didn’t even call you by name!”

Geralt reared back, “What the hell?”

Emhyr pressed forward, “Tell me!”

Geralt reached out and took the letter. He gazed at it curiously and then fondly ran a finger over the folded edge. Emhyr felt a hand grip his heart in an iron crush as he read the answer in Geralt’s expression. “You were in love with me before I even came here.” He said flatly; in an almost ugly tone of disbelief. Geralt turned a look of exasperation on him as Emhyr’s steel trap of a mind took the unspoken confession and ran with it. 

“Cirilla wrote on the letter to admonish you to stop hiding, not to me as I assumed. She knew you were in love with me. It is old knowledge, familiar to her yet easy upon her mind despite your relationship with Yennifer. She is a remarkably just young woman. Therefore, your love for me must have preceded your infatuation with the sorceress and you had told Cirilla thus.”

He reared back like Geralt had thrown sand in his eyes, “From the very beginning then. In Cintra?”

Geralt gave him a sour look, “You going to let me talk or are you just going to figure out the rest without my input?”

Emhyr swallowed, “Would that make you more comfortable?” Geralt rolled his eyes and didn’t say a word. Emhyr continued but slowly, as if he wasn’t sure where to place his feet on an icy morning on the battlements. 

“You were in love with me in Cintra but respected my marriage to Pavetta… No, not my marriage. You respected my feelings for Pavetta too much to make your own known. You have hardly been faithful to Yennifer over the years. Some of that might be explained by the spell binding you two together despite your true will, but more likely, given what I know of your character, it was an unconscious expression of your desire to keep yourself free for who you truly wanted.”

He paused before asking cautiously, “Despite the fact that you thought me dead?” A huff was his only answer. “However I was hardly an appropriate choice once I revealed myself to you. We have barely been cordial these last years. How could you still have loved me?”

Geralt waited as if he wasn’t sure Emhyr was going to really stop talking. Eventually he answered, “Dunno.”

Emhyr raised his eyebrows, “That’s all you have to say.”

Geralt sighed, “I was trying not to think about it, alright. You are kind of an ass. I hated you and I loved you at the same time. So I pushed it all down and carried on without any part of you. I just…I just didn’t think about you. Until I came here and your letters; well, suddenly you were all I could think about. So yes, my feelings haven’t gone away. But what does any of this even matter?”

Emhyr growled out, “Do you not think it has something to do with our current situation?”

Geralt shrugged, “Not really. I mean, you were the one who brought it up, not me. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am in love with you but I must live my life without you.”

Emhyr sneered, “I’ve never thought you were a man who would give up.”

Geralt snarled right back, “In case you don’t remember, before this all started, you were the fuckin’ Emperor of Nilfgaard. Your own chamberlain thought I wasn’t good enough to wipe your boots and you certainly made your own opinion of me clear. My heart might be stupid but it is not suicidal. And secondly, in two more months, you are heading back to the front. You are going to have to hold the world together and save humanity. If you fuckin’ survive, you are going to have to rule the world. Meanwhile I am going to be trapped here, living my life…without you.”

Geralt spread his hands, “Where exactly in all of that do you see us, retiring together away from the world, to be together for life?”

Emhyr felt speared through by the quiet ache of longing he heard in that statement, “Is that what you want?” he asked quietly.

Geralt looked away. “It doesn’t matter. There is no sense dwelling on what can’t be.”

Emhyr cut in, “Repress it all and move on?

“Yes,” Geralt hissed back.

Emhyr drew up with a sneer, “I have a problem with that.”

Geralt whirled as if to continue fighting but Emhyr captured his lips in a kiss. Geralt fell into his arms like he was starving for him. They were on the bed and half undressed before Geralt wrenched his mouth away to say, “Sex is not going to fix this.”

Emhyr shoved his hand down Geralt’s trousers and bit at his neck. “I know,” he rumbled against the witcher’s skin.

Geralt groaned out, “Fine.” And there was significantly less talking for a while.

They didn’t come to a resolution, but they also didn’t back away from each other again. It was if, now that the words had been spoken, Geralt had no reserves against Emhyr. More likely, he was trying to live every moment he had left with Emhyr to its fullest. Emhyr envied his ability to stop thinking about the future. It was constantly on his mind.

The only time he had relief from it was when he was training the witchers or making battle plans for his return to the front. So he threw himself into those activities with his trademark focus. Thirty-one of the witchers were improving in leaps and bounds. Geralt ran them ragged out in the woods; having them hunt him and ambushing them out of nowhere. Thirty-one of the witchers began training on the Gauntlet, until Emhyr threw a fit about the repairs necessary to make the ancient obstacle course even remotely safe and secure to run. Thirty-one witchers drew in Emhyr’s lessons on tactic and strategy, monster habits and habitat, and military protocol like water into dry sea sponges. However, one witcher was not.

Emhyr watched Geralt carefully training with Cedric. The witcher trainee had never really recovered fully from the Trial of the Grasses. In truth, he was only getting worse, but Geralt continued to train him as if the boy was suddenly going to spring forth full of good health. At first Emhyr had given him the benefit of the doubt, but now it was very clear that Cedric was slowly dying. He watched the whole training session. The boy left coughing to go straight indoors and Emhyr approached Geralt where the man was cleaning his sword and Cedric’s.

“He’s not going to get better, Geralt.” The whetstone stopped it steady course, but Geralt didn’t look up. “He is getting sicker every day.”

“Are you a healer now, Emhyr?” Geralt’s voice was low with despair.

“No, I’m not. But even the other trainees are talking about it now. The boy is dying and every day you cling to the idea that he is not is a day more he has to suffer.”

Geralt swore, “I know. I can hear his heart giving out. His liver is failing too, by his scent.”

Emhyr knelt down beside him, “Then why?”

Geralt swallowed, “In rare cases, the mutations have taken longer to set in.”

“Longer than a month?”

“Three months. I promised myself no longer than three months.”

Emhyr touched his shoulder, “It’s been almost four.”

Geralt shuddered, “I know. I was going to do it just now during training. An “accident” but I couldn’t. By all the gods, I know he is suffering but I just couldn’t.”

They knelt together in silence until Emhyr quietly offered, “I’ll do it.”

Geralt shook his head and took Emhyr’s hand, “it’s my responsibility.”

Emhyr stood and shook him off, “It’s my responsibility now too.” Emhyr found Cedric shivering by the fire. The boy stood and came obediently when called. Emhyr walked him out and up along the ramparts. Cedric was silent except for his wheezing breaths. Finally, Emhyr stopped and they both turned to look out at the white capped mountains. Cedric coughed and asked quietly, “You wanted to speak to me, Master Emreis?”

Emhyr folded his hands behind his back. “Sometimes,” he began quietly, “We work hard and achieve our dreams. Sometimes we become all we ever hoped we could be. Sometimes we never become what we dream we will be.”

Cedric coughed heavily and sniffed a little, “No need to sugar coat things, Master.” 

Emhyr shook his head and paced behind the boy’s back. “I’m not trying to placate you. I want to know something.” Cedric looked up curiously. Emhyr put his hands comfortingly on the boy’s shoulders, “Is there something you dreamed of becoming before the war?” he asked quietly. “Before you came to become a witcher?”

Cedric shook his head and leaned his weight into Emhyr’s hands as if he could draw strength from the man behind him. He resettled himself on his own two feet, staring out challengingly at the mountains. “The only time I ever started dreaming was after I came here. I dreamed of being a witcher.”

The boy slumped to the rampart at Emhyr’s feet. 

Emhyr blew out a long stream of white breath. He lifted his hands and, for a moment, wished that they were shaking even a little. A man’s hands should shake after he snaps the neck of a young boy. Emhyr’s were perfectly still, but rather than his usual rush of thoughts, only one thought caught in his mind. It had been so easy; how killing a man with his bare hands came back to him so smoothly. Emhyr lowered his quiet hands and calmly breathed in the cold mountain air.

They held the funeral the next day.

Cedric’s death passed a shade over the entire school. The trainees were quieter about their lessons and exercises. Geralt and Emhyr had long “discussions” at night about the ethics of euthanization. They both agreed that something had to have been done, but Geralt couldn’t help but argue that there had to be a better way. Emhyr couldn’t help but point out the impracticalities of trying to research a cure for witcher mutations, and well. The “discussions” sometimes had Emhyr sleeping back in the guest room. It was only the small snowdrops peaking up through the snowbanks that finally tabled the issue for them. Spring was coming and with it the end of their year in Kaer Morhen.

Emhyr was oddly sad to go. Obviously because of this “relationship” he had so impetuously began with the witcher, but more so because after a year of teaching them he had grown attached to the witcher trainees. It was hard to think of them as the tools they would become in a mere eight days of true time. Emhyr could do it, but he found that he had enjoyed teaching more than he had expected. They had obviously benefited from his knowledge but in a way they had taught him as well; in a way that working with adults never had.

Emhyr packed his notes, diagrams, and blueprints carefully away in a leather satchel. For the first time in years, he wore his old imperial robes. One sleeve a conspicuously paler black than the other, but not so much so as to be disreputable. In the torchlight of midnight, it would hardly be noticeable. The trainees all came out to bid him farewell until Geralt sent them back to their beds. Emhyr was touched that the boys, so exhausted from relentless training, would put off sleep until almost midnight just to see him off. Geralt waited by his ever faithful Roach and the two men mounted up onto his back. Emhyr stroked the flank of the Nilfgaardian stallion he had once given Geralt. The pure back coat was speckled with gray and Geralt let the old horse walk slowly to the end of the valley; burdened as it was by two fully grown men.

“I will send you some breeding stock as soon as it can be spared.”

Geralt simply hummed thoughtfully and patted the old horses neck. The last remnants of snow crunched under Roach’s hooves and the stars overhead were brilliant in a way you could only see in the mountains. Geralt’s back was warm against Emhyr’s chest and he had the most ridiculous urge to put his arms around the witcher. His hands stayed where they were, resting lightly on his own thighs. They rode in silence.

They reached the portal site in good time, only a few minutes to midnight. Emhyr felt his words caught up in his throat. He stood staring forebodingly at Geralt. Geralt busied himself with placing the reports and Emhyr’s satchel in the center of a circle of white stones. They stood in a silence of unresolved issues until the stone circle began to slowly pulse and glow. Geralt sighed and pulled Emhyr into his embrace and kiss. 

“Goodbye.”

Emhyr stepped back into the circle.

“Goodbye.”

The light grew brighter with every pulse until Emhyr had to close his eyes against it. When he opened them, a strange tableau had replaced the silent hill of Kaer Morhen. The great ballroom of the palace of Maribor spread out before him, filled to the brim with the elite nobility of Maribor, Redania, and strangely a small contingent of the most prominent nobles of Nilfgaard. The portal rug had been placed on the dais so the entire room could see him reappear. Beside him, Cirilla stood in full regalia holding the scepter of the emperor. She was obviously in mid-judgement. At her feet, three men were forcibly being held on their knees by General Morvran and two of his attendants: His own father- Lord Voorhis, Radovid the Stern- King of Redania, and Mererid- Emhyr’s faithful chamberlain.

The whole world seemed to be holding its breath. ‘This’ Emhyr thought to himself, ‘is a moment in time.’ What I do now will change the course of history. He looked up and caught Cirilla’s gaze. He had always thought before that she had Pavetta’s eyes, but now he could recognize the look in them. He had seen that same look from Geralt a hundred times before. It was reckless. It was bold. It demanded trust. It was up to Emhyr to rise to it.

Emhyr bowed his head to Cirilla, as an emperor would to his equal, and turned his back to the three men; displaying complete unconcern to their threat and complete confidence in his heir. The court murmured approvingly as Emhyr seated himself upon the throne and gave a respectful gesture towards Cirilla as a signal for her to continue. 

Cirilla tossed her head and fixed Lord Voorhis with a stony look, “By ancient custom, you had the right to have your case held before the Emperor himself, Lord Vorhis. As you can see, he is now here and we can continue. You stand accused of treason, of conspiring with these two men: one Mererid, already a proven traitor and one King Radovid, an enemy of the state. How do you place yourself before your emperor?”

Voorhis struggled against his own son’s hold, “Your Majesty,” he called out to Emhyr, “Let not this Northern Viper at your bosom strike! She has overthrown your rule. She has seduced my own son away from me and accuses loyal men to cover up her own reckless mistakes. To support her will create a tyrant and to place the crown on her head will be the death of Nilfgaard and the fall of her golden towers. Please. My good lord. Take up your scepter. Let older and wiser heads judge this matter.”

Nobles of three different courts fixed their eyes on Emhyr. He didn’t hesitate. “I have every confidence in my Heir and in her judgements. Lord Voorhis,” To do otherwise, would be to murder Cirilla by his own hand. “Your trial shall proceed under the judgement of Princess Cirilla.”

It was not a quick trial. The evidence of the three men’s collusion and treason was still being gathered by loyal men in three different countries. It had to be transported by sorceresses to Maribor and then finally presented before the court. Witnesses had to be brought forth and heard. Through it all, Emhyr didn’t say a word. Cirila did not speak as he would have, but she spoke with justice and that was enough. By dawn, the three men bore the title of traitor, both to Redania and Nilfgaard. Cirilla judged that they be put to death immediately. There would be no last minute escapes for any of them. Heads rolled and finally court was dismissed.

Emhyr rose smoothly and offered his arm to his daughter. She took it with a regal nod to her royal father. The entire room bowed as they left the ballroom. Emhyr didn’t say a word until they were safely ensconced back in their apartments with three layers of guards between them and the world. Emhyr poured a goblet of wine and handed it to his daughter. “Well,” he said calmly, “It seems as if you had a busy day.”

Cirilla laughed shakily.

One day without him, Emhyr mused later as his daughter rested on the couch beside him. One day, and there had been an attempted coup, several assassination attempts, an investigation through time and space, and an assault on the head of state of the neighboring kingdom with which he was at war. It was frankly terrifying. However Cirilla had come out on top and with a strong and loyal supporter in Morvran Voorhis. They might marry and they might not. By now the whole world could see that Cirilla was truly Emhyr’s child and was a force of her own to be reckoned with; not merely an extension of Emhyr’s power and skill. The army loved her, the nobles feared and respected her, and she was well on her way to conquering what remained of the Northern Kingdoms by sheer force of personality. Emhyr calculated the northern Nobility would be swearing fealty to her by the beginning of summer at the earliest or the end of fall at the latest. The war would be over and humanity could finally be united against the threat of the Conjunction.

Emhyr played out the numbers in his mind again and again. Again and again, humanity triumphed. They had done it. Of course, it wasn’t over yet. There was still the hard work of actually making peace, defeating monsters, and restoring the world to rights. However, baring extraordinary new circumstance that Emhyr could not predict, they would win and recover in time. Cirilla would be Empress of a united humanity and beloved for leading them through one of the worst cataclysms in history. She would have the loyalty of sorceresses, lords, peasants, and witchers. Her rule might even bring about a second golden age of Nilfgaard, but that was perhaps a father’s indulgent dream. She would rule well. That was enough.

And Cirilla’s secured rule opened up … possibilities that Emhyr had discarded for being impossible.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” a sleepy murmur drifted up from his lap. Emhyr looked down at his daughter’s peaceful face.

“Your father.”

One of Ciri’s eyebrows quirked over her closed eyes, “Are you referring to yourself in third person now? Because I can only stand so much arrogance before I shove you off the sofa.”

Emhyr chuckled warmly and Ciri’s eyes popped open in shock. “No, I am referring to Geralt.”

Ciri’s mouth fell open, “As my father,”

“Do you deny it?”

Ciri closed her mouth and hummed in a particularly familiar way. “No,” she answered cautiously, “I have often thought of him as such. I just didn’t think you much cared for our relationship.”

Emhyr gently touched her hair, “My jealously does not remove the fact of your relationships existence.” He looked away from her shocked expression towards a framed map on the wall opposite. Predictably his eyes lingered on Kaer Morhen. Emhyr somewhat hated himself for the excess of sentimentality.

Cirilla shifted, briefly and unintentionally elbowing Emhyr in the thigh. “What are you thinking about in regards to Geralt?”

“Your father and I, resolved several of our issues while I was away this past day. I have not often been wrong about my judgement of a man’s character.”

Ciri sat up and Emhyr had the singular delight of seeing his own focused stare turned on him by his daughter. His lips twitched upward into a smile and Ciri gasped. “You are fucking him, aren’t you?”

“Cirilla, language.”

Cirilla informed him her opinion on her own father trying to curb his grownup daughter’s language with a litany of what exactly she imagined Geralt and Emhyr had gotten up to alone in these bedchambers…in three languages. Emhyr sighed at her with immense regality.

“It occurs to me,” he said, to curb what was beginning to seem like a disturbing interest in his sex life, “Now that you are more secure with the aspect of ruling our Empire, that it might be possible for me to take, shall we say, the occasional day off.”

Ciri grinned, “And of course for it really to be a day off, you will need to go somewhere very far away, so that those incessant courtiers can’t find you. Perhaps a mountain retreat?” she added mock innocently.

Emhyr wrapped a long arm around her shoulders and she fell into his side warmly. “Perhaps,” he answered.


	7. Epilogue

It was something of a logistical problem, but Emhyr’s mind was easily up to the task of determining exactly how many days he could afford to spend visiting Kaer Morhen over the next year. He aged a year everyday he spent there, and while the remnants of elven blood in the Emreis bloodline was staving off the effect of early aging, Emhyr was not a young man. It was worth it though, to see Geralt’s face when he appeared again through the portal. The witcher trainees, now several years older, were thrilled to have him back as well.

As Emhyr predicated, it was a long and grueling slog to finished the war with Redania and fend off the increasing monster attacks. Refugees poured to Maribor and Oxenfort. The effects of the conjunction finally reached Nilfgaard, shutting his recalcitrant nobles up once and for all. New Witchers arrived and more trainees were sent. The village of Kaer Morhen flourished under the benevolent eye of Geralt. The Nilfgaardian army with the Witchers in support slowly began taking territory back. By spring, they had refortified and repopulated a good portion of the Northern kingdoms. They had to stop there until the draft could resupply the army with needed manpower and a system could be set in place to guard their territory properly against the still terrifyingly random monster attacks.

By midsummer, Emhyr had handed the majority of his duties over to Cirilla. He remained Emperor but he spent more time out at the front, with the armies, than he did ruling. Cirilla rose to the challenge and with Morvran and Dijkstra to advise her, she ruled well. Emhyr was always a teleport away if the situation needed his special brand of Imperial Authority or if Ciri needed his advice. By fall, Emhyr was spending more days in Kaer Morhen than ever before. Unsurprisingly, life in his empire went on without him. They began to call Cirilla the Silver Empress and plans began for her official coronation.

As for Geralt, well, he seemed happy to Emhyr. As the second year of his confinement in Kaer Morhen passed, the Master Witcher taught and produced hundreds of witchers. Emhyr brought him detailed reports and stories of the work his students did to take back the world from new and strange monster threats. Very infrequently, Emhyr brought with him a small clay urn which Geralt reverently installed in the catacombs and had the brass worker engrave the fallen witcher’s name. Eskel visited occasionally and even Lambert came for one day/year just to see the old fortress after Emhyr had sent his masons and stonecutters to renovate. Geralt and Emhyr had some truly spectacular fights, but on the whole remained devoted to each other. Emhyr never stopped trying to be the man he felt Geralt saw him as, and Geralt got his wish. They grew old together.

A wet cough interrupted Geralt’s logical explanation as to why Emhyr shouldn’t stay by his bedside to watch him die. The old emperor simply frowned at his lover who could no longer even rise from his bed to argue with him. After two years, or more realistically 730 years, trapped within Kaer Morhen, the White Wolf’s great heart was finally giving out. The mutations which had brought him such long life had eventually brought its end. It had been slow, so slow in fact that Emhyr had almost missed it. Just a few stumbling steps at first and a light cough where no cold should be able to take hold. However Emhyr had been watching for any sign of old age and he deduced what it meant. Thus he had handed over the last of his duties to Cirilla, said his goodbyes, and stepped through the portal for the last time.

The last twenty years within Kaer Morhen had been wonderful and heartbreaking. Geralt had taken to the idea of Emhyr dying with him poorly, but in time Emhyr had convinced him. When the end came, it came fast. Geralt had climbed the stairs to his tower room for the last time three nights ago. Instead Emhyr hauled his old bones down to the well for their daily water. The horn of plenty he kept by their bed. They had spent the last days curled around each other in their great wide bed; talking quietly and watching the clear mountain sky. 

“Emhyr!”

The irritated cry brought Emhyr’s attention back to his lover’s angry face. He gently traced the deep lines set in Geralt’s skin. “No,” he said firmly once again.

“I held out this long so you could leave tonight.” Geralt's voice rasped as he struggled to catch his breath. “You’ve heard the sorceresses. Kaer Morhen is likely to disappear into the void when I die and the spell no longer has a tether. You still have a few years left. The portal will open at midnight. Just go already!”

Emhyr smiled fondly, “Geralt, the only reason my frailer body has not preceded you in these last twenty years is that there are no diseases here for me to catch. Why do you think I sent all your students away years ago?” Emhyr lay down carefully and gathered Geralt’s still muscular form into his thin arms. Geralt tried to draw in a long sigh but broke off into wet coughs. Emhyr rode out the great heaving coughs patiently until Geralt finally stilled. The stars began to peek themselves out of the sky before Emhyr spoke again. “You told me once that no witcher ever died in their bed and that you were frightened of what that would mean for you here. Do you regret not ending your life years ago?”

He felt Geralt’s still strong hand slide slowly up and down his back and accepted the comfort with his still habitual ill grace. “No,” Geralt answered, “I was frightened, yes, but growing old has not been so terrifying with you beside me.”

“Old,” Emhyr scoffed, “No matter how you look, until three days ago you were still working the pendulums and carrying me up the stairs like some barbarian’s prize.”

Geralt’s hand drifted down to cup Emhyr’s rear and the old man rolled his eyes. “You always were my favorite reward for a hard day’s labor.” 

Emhyr propped himself up on the witcher’s chest to give him one long stare, “I have no intention of being scarred for the rest of my short life from you dying on me mid coitus. So get those thoughts out of your head now.”

Geralt chuckled sadly and brushed Emhyr’s silver hair out of his eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly and as he had for all the long years of their life, Emhyr answered him with a smile. Emhyr grunted a little as he sat up to light the little oil lamp and sighed as he settled back into Geralt’s arms.

“Do you want me to read Cirilla’s letter again?”

Geralt’s huff ruffled Emhyr’s thin silver hair, “Yes, please.” He replied gruffly.

Emhyr hid his amusement and reached for letter lying close at hand on the bedside table. 

“My fathers,  
The war continues apace but even the strongest detractors can clearly see that the end is now in sight and it is in our favor. The Nilfgaardian Sun now hangs over the entirety of the north. I know that will please you, Emhyr. Geralt, I know you are curious what happened to the dragon in Novigrad. Dandelion and Priscila demanded that I include their combined work on the subject of that particular battle and I would fain disappoint them by spoiling their fun. They call it, “The March of the Witchers.” It is really quite good and did wonders for the Witcher reputation. Of course, that reputation is now quite changed. Everywhere I go, I hear tales and stories of the Witcher and their soldiers. It is a whole new world the two of you have crafted.

Morvran and I were married yesterday. I know I didn’t tell you last year, but I admit the thought of waking up from my wedding bed to a letter with your combined displeasure on the subject was a little too daunting. I had a blissful evening and am now fortified to defy you both. I love him. I know it seems strange; especially after my arguments with him, but his defiance has only ever been for the good of the people and not himself. When I realized that, it was very difficult not to love him. Despite him being a stuffed shirt; yes, thank you Geralt.”

Emhyr paused in the middle of his reading and watched the face of his lover. Geralt’s light breaths wheezed in and out steadily, his eyes were closed, and his face contented. Emhyr carefully folded up Cirilla’s letter and put it away before curling up close to Geralt. It wasn’t long after that. They lay with their faces tucked close to each other and Emhyr counted his lover’s breaths. At 127 breaths, Geralt let out a sigh and died. Emhyr felt his own breath hitch as he stared at his lover’s still form. The old man tucked his head down against Geralt’s shoulder and waited for the end. However, it was not the cold void which woke him from the slumber he drifted into. It was a hand placed gently on his shoulder. Emhyr knew in a moment that it was not Geralt’s. He looked up and met Cirilla’s tear-filled eyes. She sank down on the bed beside him and threw her arms around him. Emhyr closed his arms around her automatically, now long accustomed to embraces after years with Geralt. He looked out to see the world stretching out beyond the former boundaries of the barrier.

They burned Geralt there and entombed his ashes with honor next to Vesemir’s. Emhyr carried a small vial of the ash with him when Cirilla bore them forth. He didn’t say a word to her about the risk of disease as she carried them back to the imperial palace. He had made his decision already and had no intention of out-living Geralt for long, especially not secluded away from the world. If the universe would not oblige him, Emhyr would do it himself. The gods were kind. Emhyr was bedridden within days of his return. Cirilla was devastated of course, but Morvran seemed to have fallen in love with her as deeply as Emhyr had fallen for his own witcher. The old emperor was glad she had her husband’s support for the sudden death of both of her fathers. He contemplated the loveable qualities of witchers as he lay in his own death bed not a week after he had rested in Geralt’s. The death of a former emperor was always a grand fuss. Emhyr dying within a year of his final conquest and subsequent abdication sent wild rumors flying. As he lay dying surrounded by the nobility, sycophants, and servants, he could only wish that he was back in Kaer Morhen with Geralt. His frail hand clung tightly to the little vial of ash but Cirilla’s strong grip was all that truly held them together.

They say the great Emperor of Nilfgaard had no last words, no last minute commands or advice for his heir. Others say that he said a name in his last moments but had no breath left to give it voice. That ambiguity along with the mysterious location of the emperor’s resting place was the talk of the empire for years to come. The Empress Cirilla refused to tell where she had laid her father’s bones to rest and it lent a legendary cast to the end of the Great Imperator’s life. Talk of a hidden tomb where he lay enshrined with his fabulous hoard from conquest began to spread. Treasure hunters began combing the world. However, they never looked in the catacombs of the famous Witcher School of Kaer Morhen. In fact, most who came near to the emperor’s resting place only came to honor the legendary Grand Master Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Those visitors often glanced at the humble shrine beside his; wondering who was residing in such grand company, but did not linger on the mystery overlong. That simple shrine bore only a short epitaph: Emhyr of Cintra, Beloved Husband and Father.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am glad to finally be done with this monster. Oddly enough, it was the last scene that inspired the whole story. I wanted to figure out if there was a way for Emhyr and Geralt to grow old and die together. Several thousand words later...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Thank you to everyone who commented. I very much enjoyed reading them. If you liked my work, take a look at my other stories. They are nothing too extraordinary, but a bit of fun. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!


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